


Winter's Ending

by Rainne



Series: How Steve Rogers Got His Groove Back [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Incredible Hulk - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: All the issues that come attached to dealing with everything that's been done to Bucky, Body Horror, Bucky Feels, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Male Friendship, Oh my God I have all these feels and I don't know what to do with them, PTSD, dysmorphia, winter soldier spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 09:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1422625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/pseuds/Rainne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of <i>CA:TWS</i>, Steve and Sam begin their search for Bucky Barnes.  At the same time, the Winter Soldier begins his own search.  Nick Fury's web of lies begins to crumble, and nobody knows what might happen as the pieces start to hit the ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **_I beg of you not to read this story until after you have seen Captain America: The Winter Soldier._**  
>   
> 
> This story, especially the first few chapters, is my attempt at weaving the loose threads of that movie into a cohesive whole with this universe. I may be successful - then again, I may not. If I am not, I hope you will tell me. If I am, I hope that you will enjoy the experience.
> 
> Either way, I just... I just have all these _feelings_ , especially about Bucky, and I couldn't _not_ deal with them.
> 
> This fic is dedicated to Secondalto, who returned from viewing the movie and essentially ordered me to “fix the fuck out of it.” Doin' my best, bb.

It took a long time for him to realize that he was in pain. One reason for that was that it was a small pain, on the scale of pain that he was accustomed to, and he was used to brushing off minor injuries in order to complete missions.

But even after he realized he was in pain, it took him another hour to understand that he needed to do something about it. And it took him another hour after that to work out what he should do. He'd never had to make decisions like this before; he'd always just completed his mission, and then reported back. If he had any damage, they repaired him and put him away. But he wasn't reporting back this time. Not this time.

His mission was to kill the man in the blue suit,

_(the man on the bridge, who was he?)_

the man with the shield, but he had failed in that mission. Had, in fact, gone outside the parameters of that mission to actively prevent the man from dying.

_(“You know me.”_

“ _No, I don't!”)_

The man in the blue suit had a name. It hurt to think about that name, hurt in a way that he didn't understand, couldn't identify. He forced himself not to think about it. He focused on his arm. He needed to do something about his arm before it healed wrong. He needed... he needed... His eyes darted back and forth, taking in the sparse greenery of the riverside park around him as he thought, his mind racing. He needed a doctor.

He knew he couldn't go to a hospital; official places reported things and too many people had seen him. But there were always back-alley places you could go if you needed medical attention and didn't want to attract any other kind of attention. It wouldn't be difficult to find such a place. Only, he needed to do something about the damn metal arm.

He made his way down the riverbank, staying in the trees, until he found a triage point where emergency workers were setting up. Within twenty minutes, someone stripped off a jacket and left it unattended. He made it his, shrugging it on quickly and sticking the metal hand into his pocket. He weaved through the crowd of workers, looking busy and purposeful. He snagged a hat that had fallen on the ground and popped it onto his head. Then he vanished between two ambulances.

Forty minutes later, he was standing in a run-down but clean waiting room, facing a tiny, white-haired black woman with half-moon spectacles perched on her nose. “You're soaking wet,” she commented.

“Fell in the river,” he said simply.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” she replied. She shook her head, clucking her tongue. “Crazy people, doing crazy things. What's this from? No, wait, don't tell me. I know what it was from.”

His eyes darted to the elderly television set, playing the news coverage on mute, and back to her face. But she wasn't looking at his face or the television; she was looking at his right arm.

“This came from bungee jumping, didn't it?” she said, carefully removing his glove and setting it aside. “You're some kind of crazy thrill-seeker and you, what, bounced back too hard and hit your arm on the side of the bridge?”

He couldn't help it; he laughed. It was a rusty sound, and it surprised the hell out of him - he hadn't even known he _could_ laugh. But he did.

“Need you out of your shirt,” she said. “Can't set the bone through all this leather.” She tugged gently on the left sleeve of the jacket.

He swallowed hard, set his jaw, and shrugged out of the jacket. The doctor had to help him with the leather armor; already snug when it was dry, getting out of it wet and one-handed was nearly impossible. As it was, he had to bite down on several colorful curses that wanted to escape. Finally it was done. He leaned back in his chair for a moment, breathing deeply, while she pulled up a low table and gently rested his arm on it. He watched her eyes; she glanced briefly at the metal, then returned her focus to the broken arm without a word.

Her first touch of his skin was feather-light, and her fingers, even as she pressed here and there to feel the injury, were the gentlest human contact he'd had since... ever. There was no one he could think of who'd ever touched him with the kind of real care and concern he could feel as she searched out the edges of the break, and he felt his brow furrowing as he watched her.

Finally, she looked up at him. “I'd feel better about this if I could get some X-rays, but I ain't got a machine, so I'm gonna do the best I can for you. Okay?” He nodded, and she continued. “The other thing I ain't got is access to any kind of strong pain meds.”

“I don't need them,” he said simply.

She studied his face for a moment, her eyes boring into his, and she shook her head. “No, I suppose you don't, do you? Crazy bungee-jumping adrenaline junkie.”

His lips twitched upward at that, the expression feeling strange on his face. She laid both her hands on top of his right hand. “You want something to bite down on?”

He shook his head, feeling sweat beading up near his hairline. “Just do it,” he told her.

“All right. On three.” She settled her hands, one near his elbow, the other gripping his hand. “One. Two.” She pulled. He clenched his jaw, his head falling back, his neck cording and stretching as he kept the shout of pain behind his teeth. The only sound that escaped was a fast hiss of breath as he felt the broken edges of the bone realign.

It was almost like the click of two pieces coming together inside his brain. “That's it, that's it,” he gasped.

She stopped pulling immediately. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I can feel it,” he told her.

Her fingers, gentle, ran down his arm again, examining the break, feeling for anything out of place. “I think you're right,” she told him softly. “Just hold still and let me splint it.” She left the room, and he could hear her rummaging through a closet in the hallway. His left hand went instinctively to his lower back, where there was still a gun tucked into his waistband. It dropped away, though, when she came back in carrying nothing more than a piece of shaped plastic, a roll of Ace bandage, and a folded-up sling. She maneuvered his arm against the splint and wrapped it carefully, then helped him back on with his shirt. “That leather ain't gonna go back on over that splint,” she told him. “You got something to carry it in?”

He blinked. “No, I... I don't have anything.”

“Hmm.” She helped him on with the sling, adjusting it carefully until it was comfortable, and then she sat down and stared into his face. “Son, let's talk.”

His heart thumped. “That's probably not a good idea.”

She pointed a finger at him. “Let me explain something to you, Mr. Bungee Jumping Adrenaline Rush. I did not get to be where I am in life without knowing a few things, and I do not run this clinic where it is without knowing a few more. Now, I ain't got to turn around and look at that TV screen up there to know what's what when a white man with a big fancy metal arm comes walkin' into my clinic hurt on a day like today. Do you understand me, what I'm saying to you?”

He blinked at her. “Not really,” he admitted.

“Look,” she said, her voice softening, “I know you're in trouble. I knew that when you walked in. Most days, don't nobody come through that door that ain't in some kind of trouble. That's what I'm here for, you understand? I help out folks in trouble. That's what I do. I took an oath, see, when I graduated from medical school. And it was all about not doing harm, which most folks know. But there's another part to that oath about doing the most good, and that's what I try to do here.”

He considered those words carefully. Then he nodded, waiting for her to get to the point.

“What I'm trying to say, son, is that I want to help you.”

He shook his head. “You can't,” he said. He watched her face. She looked... disappointed? And in that moment he made another decision. He wasn't going to kill this woman. It was perhaps the second real decision he'd made on his own in living memory, but he was pleased with it. He turned it over in his mind several times, and it felt right. It felt good to decide not to kill her. He stood up. “I have to go.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money. He wasn't sure how much was there. He pushed it all at her. She took the roll, peeled off a fifty, and handed the rest back to him. “That'll cover the supplies,” she told him, her voice gentle. “That's all I need.”

He stared at her for a minute. “But - ”

“No.” She shook her head. “You don't have to give me money to keep me quiet, son. That's my job. Ain't nobody gonna know nothing about you being here except me and you. Okay?”

He nodded. He tucked the money back into his pocket. He looked at her for a minute. Then he said, “Do you...” He paused, reconsidering the words, and then he said, “What is your name?”

_("Bucky. You've known me your whole life. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”_

“ _Shut up!”)_

“Evelyn,” she replied. “Dr. Evelyn Jackson.” She reached for something on the desk, handed him a business card. He glanced at it; it was printed with her name, the clinic's name, and a set of telephone numbers. “Son, if you decide you want some help after all, you call me. All right? I'll be here.”

He nodded, tucking the card away. Then he collected his armor. She dug into a drawer and pulled out a plastic shopping bag. He rolled the leather up and tucked it into the bag. Then he said, “Evelyn.”

She looked up at him and waited for him to find words he couldn't remember ever saying to anyone.

“Thank you.”

She patted his left shoulder. “You take care, Bungee Jumping Man.”

He left quickly.

***

When Steve opened his eyes in the hospital, Sam was sitting beside the bed and Marvin Gaye was playing quietly in the background. He liked the sound of it. “On your left,” he rasped, and Sam smiled gently.

They were silent for a moment before Sam spoke. “That's some girl you got,” he said simply.

Steve's eyes had begun to flutter closed again; at this, he opened them wide. “What?”

“Your girl,” Sam repeated. “Darcy.” He gave Steve a concerned glance. “You didn't hit your head or something, did you?”

“No, I just... how did you know about Darcy?”

“Natasha called me,” Darcy's voice entered the conversation. She pulled the hospital room's door closed behind herself. “Something about my boyfriend and his World War Two BFF blowing up SHIELD.”

“Oh, God, Darce,” Steve managed, then coughed. “Did she - ”

“She told us,” Darcy assured him, shutting the music off and coming around to sit down on the other side of the bed. She filled a glass of water from a pitcher and brought it to his lips, helping him hold it when his hand shook. “She told us everything. Tony's spent the last few days going through the cybersecurity with a fine-toothed comb, and Pepper's ripping through personnel like some kind of avenging angel. It's kind of terrifying to watch.” She put the drained glass down on the table and took his hand, her fingers stroking the skin. “When I get back, apparently there's a new job waiting for me, but I'm under strict orders not to come back until you're with me.”

Steve grimaced. “Darcy, I... Doll, I don't know when I'm gonna be coming back. Did...” He paused, wetting his lips. “Did she tell you about Bucky?”

“Everything she knows, which isn't much. But she said you'd probably want to go after him, if there was even the least chance that he survived.”

“He survived,” Steve said. “I know he did.”

Darcy nodded. “Of course he did,” she said simply. “So you're going after him, which, again, of course. But Steve.” She touched his nose, making sure she had his undivided attention. “Don't you think you should go about this in a smart way, rather than going off half-cocked?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, work smarter, not harder. Use the resources you have. You're going to need people behind you.”

He closed his eyes in frustration. “SHIELD is gone, Darcy. We burned it to the ground. So what team am I supposed to have behind me? There's nobody left I can trust.”

Her voice was a little on the cold side when she spoke again. “Nobody?”

“That's not what I meant,” he backtracked, his eyes flying open to meet the hurt look in hers. “Darcy, I didn't mean you.”

“Oh, so you meant me,” Sam said from the other side of the bed.

“Of course I didn't mean you,” Steve tried.

“Oh, okay,” Darcy spoke over him. “So you meant Natasha. And Clint. And Bruce and Tony and Pepper and Jane and Thor.”

“You know damn well I didn't mean them!” Steve exclaimed.

“Then what team did you _think_ I meant?” Darcy asked, tugging on his fingers to ground him again. “You're an _Avenger_ , idiot. You _always_ have a team.”

“The Avengers Initiative was a SHIELD project - ”

“Not any more.” Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped at the screen for a moment, and then handed the device to Steve. There was a video paused on the screen, and Steve tapped the “play” icon.

A digital banner across the bottom of the screen read _Avengers' Independence Day_. Pepper stood on a podium, with Tony on one side of her in the suit and Thor on the other, in full regalia. She was in the middle of speaking. “The news that SHIELD has been infiltrated by HYDRA was a shock and a blow to all of us. Tony Stark's father, Howard, helped to found SHIELD in the years after World War II, and learning that his father's legacy to this country has become so corrupted has forced Mr. Stark to make a number of painful but necessary decisions.

“As of this moment, the Avengers Initiative wishes to declare its complete and total disassociation from and independence of _any_ government - including the United States government - and any government agency. The Avengers - the Black Widow, Captain America, Hawkeye, the Incredible Hulk, Iron Man, and Thor - and their respective alternate identities are now and will forever remain independent agents after the example of the X-Men and the Fantastic Four.”

She paused for dramatic effect, staring straight into the camera. “Furthermore, the Avengers Initiative wishes to state firmly and for the record that we consider HYDRA to be our enemy, and the enemy of all mankind, and that we are committed to rooting out and destroying that enemy wherever it goes, wherever it hides, however it tries to mask itself. If anyone within the sound of my voice is a supporter of HYDRA, then know this. You are our enemy. And we will come for you.” With that, she stepped away from the podium.

The video ended, and Steve looked up at Sam and Darcy in shock. “Did she just... declare _war_ on HYDRA?”

Darcy nodded. Sam said, “Pretty sure that's exactly what she did.”

Steve's head fell back against his pillow. “Holy shit.”

Darcy giggled.

***

It began that night on the talking-head news channels. Rachel Maddow devoted a full half-hour to coverage of the helicarrier crashes and the footage of Captain America on his knees on a D.C. street with a gun to his head. “Where is he now?” she asked the cameras, her face worried. “Pepper Potts - and, by extension, the Avengers Initiative - spoke for him today in New York, but Cap himself has not been seen since he was taken into custody by a SWAT-style team of unidentified thugs in Washington on the day before this tragedy occurred.” She paused, staring earnestly into the television cameras. “Captain Rogers, if you're watching this, please let us know. The people of America are worried about you. If anyone has any information about the Captain's whereabouts, please contact us.” She rattled off her email contact information, and then the show went to commercial.

Darcy snorted softly from the end of Steve's bed. Her sock-clad toes, up on the end of his mattress, twitched in an odd sync with her fingers as she worked at knitting something that Steve couldn't yet identify. _Might be a hat_ , he thought idly. He flipped the channel.

Bill O'Reilly had a photo of the burning Triskellion on his screen. “And where were the Avengers?” he was asking. “Earth's Mightiest Heroes couldn't seem to be bothered to make an appearance, to stop this obvious terrorist attack? And now we're finding out that Captain America may have even been _taken into custody!_ ”

“Change the channel,” Sam said. “That guy seriously makes me wanna smack somebody.”

Steve grunted and changed the channel. Anderson Cooper looked very serious beside the footage of Steve on his knees in the street. “- and Captain America seems to be missing in action. Has he been arrested, or is he being _detained_? No one seems to have any answers. We contacted the Avengers Initiative for comment, but they stated that they were unable to provide any new information at this time.”

Steve changed the channel again. “Oh,” he said. “Ferris Bueller's Day Off.”

“Sounds perfect,” Darcy murmured.

“God, they need some Pay-Per-View up in here or something,” Sam griped.

By the next day, Steve's gut wound had all but vanished. He declared himself well enough to leave, and when he held his ground even against Darcy's second-most-disapproving expression, she nodded and said “Okay.” She helped him on with his hoodie - his abdomen was still a little sore - and he slapped a ball cap onto his head and tugged the hood up over it. Sam passed him a pair of sunglasses and a nurse led them through the hospital and out a back service entrance, where a dark blue SUV waited for them. Darcy got behind the wheel and Sam helped Steve into the back seat - the better to avoid being seen - before taking the front seat beside her.

“Is there anything you need from your place here?” Darcy asked.

Steve shook his head. “No. Everything I could possibly need is either already in New York or right here.” He met her eyes in the rearview mirror and gave her a tired smile.

She smiled back, clearly not buying it, but nodded. “Okay,” she said. Then she glanced over at Sam. “Anything you need before we go?”

He shook his head. “I got everything I need in the back already. Including my wings. I'm kinda hoping maybe I can get your buddy Stark to have a look at 'em while we're there.”

“Give him half a chance and he'll rebuild them out of titanium and add on turbo boosters,” Steve assured his friend.

“Sweet,” Sam replied, grinning.

“Okay,” Darcy said, putting the car into gear. “Since everybody has everything they need, we're going.”

A little over five hours later, they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel into midtown traffic, and Steve felt himself breathe freely for the first time in what felt like years. He hadn't realized, during his brief stay in D.C., how much he had missed the city of his birth. He and Darcy had even been tentatively discussing the possibility that she might start looking for work in the city. She'd been considering putting feelers out with some of her poli-sci contacts from Culver when he and Natasha had been sent out after the _Lemurian Star_. He leaned forward, pleased to note that the soreness in his gut had mostly abated. “Hey, um. You didn't put out any of those feelers we talked about yet, did you?”

She shook her head. “Didn't have time; Tony blew up another machine the same morning we talked, and then I had to help Jane get ready for a conference. I had it on the list for...” She paused, then gave a soft laugh. “For today, actually.”

He nodded, gripping her shoulder warmly. “Don't,” he said simply.

“No place like home, yeah?” Sam murmured as Steve sat back again.

Steve made a soft sound of agreement. Darcy turned on Madison Avenue and he felt himself relax even more as the great, sweeping bulk of the redesigned and renamed Avengers Tower soared up into view. “Home,” he whispered. “Finally.”

There was press outside the building; unsurprising, between his own disappearance and Pepper's press conference. Fortunately, there were two parking areas, and one of them was completely secured. Darcy drove up to the main parking entrance and Steve ducked behind her seat when she rolled her window down to show the gate guard her ID. The guard raised the bar and let her past with a quick nod, and she rolled the window back up as she went in. Then she drove to a particular parking space that was marked reserved for Tony. She idled in the slot, pulled out her cell phone, and dialed JARVIS.

When the AI answered, Darcy gave him her security code, and the cement floor beneath them retracted on its hydraulic base, lowering the SUV down into the subterranean garage where the Avengers' personal vehicles were stored. As soon as JARVIS said to, she backed the SUV off the pad, and they all watched as the slab of concrete rose again, fitting itself seamlessly into the surface above. Then Darcy parked the SUV and killed the engine. “Well,” she said, giving Sam a raised eyebrow. “We're here.”

Steve sighed softly. “Thank God.”


	2. Chapter 2

There was a homeless shelter on Second Street. He found it sort of by accident on the first day After, but when he realized what it was, he went inside and asked if he could have some food. They did him one better: the young volunteer he spoke to brought him a sandwich and a bottle of water, and said they had shower facilities if he'd like to use them. He thought about that for a long time while he was eating the sandwich.

_(if you'd like)_

He couldn't remember the last time someone asked him what he'd _like_. What he _wants_. He doesn't _want_. He doesn't _like_. He wakes up from the cold and they give him missions and he completes his missions and if there's damage, it's repaired and then he goes back to the cold until he wakes up again.

The sandwich was thick; the bread was white and relatively fresh and the sliced meat was brilliant pink, piled high and topped with bright green lettuce and dark green pickles and thick red slices of tomato. The water was cold and clean and didn't taste of minerals or drugs.

_(if you'd like)_

The young volunteer didn't stare at him while he ate; in fact, she didn't seem to worry about him at all, any more than she worried about any of the other people milling around the room. There were other men like him, men who were dirty and looked lost, and he thought that maybe he was unremarkable there with his jacket and his ball cap and his arm in a sling.

He ate the whole sandwich and drank the whole bottle of water and he made a decision for the third time in living memory. He formed the words carefully in his mind and he looked up at the young volunteer when she passed by him and he said, “Yes, I would like to take a shower.”

It felt good, to _like_. It felt good, to _want_.

It felt good to get clean.

The young volunteer found another volunteer - this one male, because the girl was good-hearted but not stupid - to show him to the showers. The room was semi-communal, but the individual shower heads were enclosed by stalls that locked. The male volunteer gave him a rough white towel and a little plastic bag of toiletries and told him to take his time, that there was plenty of hot water and nobody else to want the shower right then, and left him alone in the room.

He chose a stall and locked himself in. There was a metal hook on the back of the door, and he hung up the plastic bag containing his leather, then his jacket. He tucked his hat into the bag. Then he looked at the little bag of toiletries. He was now the proud owner of a small bar of soap, a tiny bottle of shampoo/conditioner, a safety razor, and a flimsy comb.

He stripped. He folded his clothing carefully and stowed it on a shelf beside the stall door. He unwrapped his arm, setting the bandage and the splint carefully atop his clothing. The arm felt better already, but he came in with the splint and he should leave with it to avoid questions.

He ran the water hot and wet himself thoroughly, then he crouched under the spray and held his left arm up into it. It was the best, quickest way he could think of to get it rinsed completely clear. The cybernetics themselves were fine, but the water quality in the Potomac was questionable at best and he'd rather not have anything gumming up the works. It's not like he can get it repaired if it quits working.

Once he was reasonably certain the arm was rinsed clear, he unpacked the toiletries and worked on the rest of his body. He was tempted to dump the whole bottle of hair cleaner onto his head, but he restrained himself. He didn't actually need that much, and he could take the rest of it with him. He used it on his face as well, reasoning that if it was good enough to clean the skin and hair on the top of his head, it was probably good enough to clean the skin and hair on the front of his head. Then he pulled the soap out and spent several long, blissful minutes watching accumulated dirt and grime run off his body and down the drain. He wondered, briefly, when the last time was that he was allowed to have a shower.

_(your work has been a gift to mankind. you shaped the century.)_

Once he was so clean that his skin glowed ruddy, he rinsed himself, crouching down to give the arm one more careful, thorough sluice. Then he shut the water off, shook himself like a dog, and grabbed the towel to do a more thorough job. Putting on his dirty clothes over his clean body wasn't very nice, but he lacked any other options, so he did what must be done. He combed his hair out straight back from his forehead, then shook his head and ran his fingers through it so that it fell side to side like it was supposed to. He thought about cutting it off, but decided that could wait.

He tucked the toiletries away in the bag with his leather, and thought that he needed something more sturdy to carry his things in, since apparently he had  _things_ now. He couldn't remember ever having  _things_ before,  _things_ that belonged to him. 

He thought about the man in the blue suit. That man had a shield that he used as a weapon. He dropped it, though, and it fell into the river.

He thought about that shield for a long time: the way it looked, the way it sounded, the way it felt when it struck him, the way it felt when the man in the blue suit dropped it and it fell away into the river.

Then he realized that he was woolgathering. He fumbled with the splint and the bandage, but he needed better leverage, so he packed everything away in his bag. He paused, feeling the lump of cash in his pocket. He wondered how much was there. His handlers always gave him cash to carry in case he needed it on a mission; usually he didn't need it, so it just stayed there in his pocket. 

He dug it out to count it and felt his forehead wrinkle in surprise. Not only was he carrying two thousand American dollars, but he also had several hundred Soviet rubles, three East German fifty-mark notes, and - somehow - fourteen Congolese francs. He snorted at the latter, but tucked them carefully back into his pocket with the rest. Then he paused. Thought.

He pulled the cash back out of his pocket, peeled three twenties and a ten out of the wad. Those four bills went back into his pocket. The rest of it went into his left boot for now. He used the clothing shelf as a support to hold the splint in place while he re-wrapped the bandage. Then he gathered his bag and left the stall. 

There was another man in the shower room now: old, stooped, mumbling, shuffling. Not a threat. He ignored the other man, left the shower room, went back down the hall to the room where the young volunteer gave him a sandwich. There was another volunteer there now, an older woman with a no-nonsense demeanor but kind eyes. She saw him, gave him a nod and a slight smile, asked him if there was anything that he needed.

He thought about this.

_Need_ is a very strong word. He needs food to fuel his body, but he's already eaten. He needs water, but he isn't thirsty. He needs to know about that man in the blue suit

_(that man on the bridge, who was he?)_

but this woman couldn't tell him that. He started to shake his head, and then a thought formed in his mind. He considered the thought, and he arranged the words that went with it. “I could use a better bag,” he said. He recognized the sound of his own voice and catalogued it: tentative, quiet.

The woman said, “Yeah, you could, couldn't you? That thing's not gonna last a week. Hang on.”

She went to a door with a digital lock, punched in a code, stood there while the door slid open to reveal a closet. Inside, he saw a fascinating variety of things. He realized that it was a donation center. The woman turned to face him, and in her hands was a black canvas backpack. She offered it to him, and he took it. “Thank you,” he said. His eyes flicked across the shelves behind her, and he was emboldened because it worked the first time, but he was slow to form the words and she divined his intent before he could speak.

“You need a change of clothes?” she asked. He nodded, and she said, “What size?”

He had no idea. He looked down at himself, wondering, and then back up at her. She waved a hand at him. “Never mind. We'll guesstimate, and you can try it on, and if it doesn't fit we'll try again.” She looked him over carefully, then went into the closet again. When she came back out, she was carrying two t-shirts, a pair of blue jeans, and a pair of camouflage pants with pockets quite like the ones he was already wearing. On top of those folded clothes was a package of brand-new boxer briefs and another of socks. She pointed him to a doorway nearby.

It turned out to be a single-occupancy bathroom. He stripped out of his dirty clothing, kicking it aside, and pulled on a clean pair of underwear. Then he tried on the camouflage pants. They fit fine, but there was something about them that made him feel strange. Like they should be familiar but weren't. He took them off, folded them up, and tucked them into his new bag. The jeans were better, snug and comfortable. He kept them on. The t-shirts both fit as well. One of them was plain gray, and the other plain blue. He folded the gray one and put it in his bag, along with the rest of the underwear in the package. Next he donned a new pair of socks, putting away the rest of the pack. Then he folded his leathers into the backpack. Finally, he rolled his dirty clothes all up as tightly as possible, tucked them into the plastic grocery bag, and stuffed that into the backpack as well.

He peeled a fifty off the roll of cash and returned it to his sock, stamped his feet into his boots, and shrugged his jacket on. Then he slung his new backpack onto his left shoulder. He looked at himself in the mirror for a moment, memorizing the contours of his own face. He left the bathroom.

The woman volunteer was sitting at a desk, and she looked up when he came out. She nodded once. “Damn, I'm good.”

He felt his lips twitch upward at that. Amusement was such an odd thing to feel. He stopped in front of the desk. “Thank you,” he said. It was the second time.

She smiled at him. “You're welcome.”

He laid the fifty dollar bill on the desk. She blinked. “You don't have to pay,” she said, trying to give it back. “It's what we're here for.”

“I know,” he said. He put his hand in his pocket, looked down at his feet, struggled for the words. Finally he said, “I want to.”

“All right,” she said. She folded the bill and closed it up into her hand. “I'll put it into the donations box.” She paused, and then she gave him another smile. “Thank _you_ ,” she said.

He didn't know how to feel about that, so he tried not to. Instead, he just nodded. Then he left.

He didn't have a destination in mind; he only knew that he hadn't found a place where he wanted to be yet. He thought that he would know it when he saw it. Then again, maybe he would just choose. He was starting to get the hang of making small decisions, like whether to have a shower or whether to ask for a bag or whether to give someone money in exchange for helping him. Or deciding not to kill someone who helped him.

Or

_(you've known me your whole life)_

finding a secure place for his bag and making his way into the museum because there's a sign out front with a picture of the man in the blue suit.

He made his way through the maze of exhibits. He looked at things as he passed, sometimes stopped to read little signs. He spent ten minutes in front of a capsule that took men to the moon, and wondered where he was for that. Was he awake, or was he in the cold? He couldn't remember.

Finally, finally. There it was. He walked under a banner and passed a wall emblazoned with the words _Welcome back, Cap._ On another wall, the man with the blue suit stared heroically into the distance, saluting. Here was a picture of a little, scrawny guy with the blue-suited man's face; underneath it was the blue-suited man himself, and he could see that both men were somehow the same man. The audio explained about an experimental program, and he thought, _oh_.

_(I thought you were dead._

_I thought you were smaller.)_

There was a display of mannequins; in the front, the blue suit - but with red and white stripes, and a different shield. The mural on the wall showed the same man, with six companions. He blinked. He saw the face, but he didn't, couldn't understand.

And then he turned. And he saw it.

_A Fallen Comrade,_ it read, and under that, the name that the man in the blue suit had given him.

_(your name is James Buchanan Barnes)_

He listened to the audio talk about Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers and how they were best friends since childhood

_(who the hell is Bucky)_

and he read the wall that told him all about how Bucky Barnes died a war hero in 1944. He looked at the videos of Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers together, and he stared at the picture on the glass wall.

He felt his left hand curl up into a fist. He wanted to rage and scream and attack that smug, uncaring, hateful face on the wall because how dare he. How dare he be there on that wall, how dare he be a hero, how dare he have the respect and honor of all these people and the friendship of the man in the blue suit how dare he be up there with that face from the mirror 

_(i'm not gonna fight you. you're my friend)_

He had to get out of there. 

He didn't care if people stared; he broke and ran for the exit, ran like he couldn't remember ever running for anything before, he ran like all the demons of 

_(HAIL_

_HYDRA)_

Hell were after him, and he fell to the ground outside, behind a retaining wall where no one could see him and he wrapped both hands in his hair and he pulled, hard, and it hurt but the pain grounded him and after a few moments he could breathe again. And he looked up at the face of the man in the blue suit, at _Captain America_ , and he realized, finally, that if he was ever going to understand anything, anything at all, that's where he was going to have to start.

He sat there and he stared at Captain America's face until the sun set.

Finally, as the crush of museum-goers ebbed, he pushed himself to his feet. He retrieved his bag from its hiding place. He found another shelter where he could spend the night; they didn't have any beds left but he doesn't need a bed, hasn't slept on a bed since

_(1944)_

he can remember. He used all his best words on the woman at the intake desk, said _please_ and promised not to be a bother and offered to help clean up after the communal meal and tried his very best to smile and the woman's eyes softened with compassion and she said there was a couch in one of the community rooms.

There was also a television, and after he kept up his end of the bargain - and really, helping to clean up an industrial kitchen was not the worst thing he'd ever done with his time - he found several men sitting around it. He staked out a space for himself, not on the promised couch but on the floor under a table wedged between two cabinets. It was a small space, covered on five of six sides, and nobody was going to fight him for a spot on the floor under a table when there was a broken down couch and some squashy chairs to be had.

He curled up and rested his head on top of his backpack and watched the television. The thought crossed his mind that it was better than the television he'd seen before, and then he wondered when he saw television. He couldn't remember. He listened to a dark-haired woman speak very earnestly about how nobody knew where Captain America was and people were worried about him. He wondered if anyone had yet found him lying there on the riverbank. He thought that maybe he should go back and check.

Someone changed the channel, and he saw a different program where a slender man with silver hair was also talking about Captain America, in conjunction with something called the Avengers Initiative. He came to the realization that whatever this Initiative was, Captain America was part of it. That was a good lead; he filed it away in his head.

He thought about everything that had happened to him in the last forty-eight hours. He thought about the exhibit in the museum. He thought about the anxious woman on the television and the slender man. He thought about _Steve Rogers_ and he thought about _Captain America_. He thought about the next twenty-four hours. And he thought, _In the morning when there is light, I will go to the riverbank and see if he is still there. If he is not there, I will find out about the Avengers Initiative and I will go there._

That thought felt good. It felt _right_. Satisfied with himself and his decision, he clamped his metal hand around his backpack, closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

***

The first thing they had to do was find Clint.

Nobody knew exactly where he was, not even Natasha, though she suspected he was probably in Afghanistan. But she had ways of getting into contact with him anyway, and she was perfectly willing to burn the whole world down in order to find him if she had to.

Fortunately, she didn't have to. She started with an email to a girlhood friend, sent even before Steve left the hospital in Washington. _Zlata_ , she wrote, _I have not heard from you in so long. How are your babies? Is the little boy walking yet? I will be in Tblisi quite soon with my husband; would you be able to come on the train, do you think? Love, your Anastasiya._

She waited.

She did yoga with Bruce, watched Tony blow up small objects, sparred with Thor, even went down to Pepper's office and smacked her head against the wall several times. It didn't matter. She was tense. SHIELD was HYDRA and they were everywhere and SI's staff had been reduced by about ten percent and Steve, Sam and Darcy were somewhere between Washington and New York in an armored SUV but where the _hell_ was Clint?

And then, just as JARVIS was announcing that Steve and Company had arrived, her Starkphone beeped in her pocket.

She snatched it out and opened an email. _Anastasiya_ , it read, _I would be ecstatic to come in on the train to Tblisi. The little boy is already running quite fast; the little girl is always getting into so much trouble. Let me know the dates of your stay in Tblisi and I will surely meet you there. Your Zlata._

Beneath the name was an address in Grozny and a telephone number. She grabbed a pen and a sticky note off Pepper's desk and wrote down every third digit, then cross-referenced the results with a map application. “I knew it,” she muttered. “JARVIS, get me Stark!”

The intercom opened immediately, and Tony said, “Nat?”

“Tony, he's outside of Kabul, waiting for pickup.” She rattled off the coordinates.

“Got it,” Tony said. “JARVIS, feed those into the suit.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“Give me an ETA, maximum speed,” Tony snapped.

There was a nanosecond's pause as JARVIS processed. “Forty-five minutes,” he said.

Natasha began typing a reply even as the comm closed with the sound of Tony's repulsors firing. _Zlata, Anton and I will arrive in Tblisi in four days and plan to stay for five. I am so very excited! I look forward to each minute that we will spend together. Anastasiya._

There was nothing else to do but wait, and meet the new arrivals upstairs. She took her leave of Pepper's office - leaving Pepper a note to let her know that she'd been there, since Pepper was in Malibu - and headed back upstairs. She got there just about the same time as the others.

There was a chorus of voices as the four of them greeted one another, and Darcy headed straight for the kitchen. “I'm starving. Anyone else?”

“Yes,” all three of them spoke at once.

Darcy laughed. “I'll find something to reheat. Give me a few minutes.”

“How was the trip up?” Natasha asked.

“Fine,” Steve replied, dropping onto one of the sofas. “Just long. Five hours in the car with these two knuckleheads.”

“You're the one who started the pun contest,” Darcy objected.

“Guilty,” Steve confessed, looking not the least bit sorry. “Sam, sit down. Make yourself at home. God knows how long we're gonna be here; you might as well be comfortable.”

Sam tossed himself into a chair, looking around at the room. “This is one hell of a place,” he commented.

“You ain't seen nothin' yet,” came the voice of Bruce Banner, as he stuck his head into the kitchen from the other side. “Steve, I'm glad to see you're back safe.”

“Thanks, Bruce,” Steve said, giving his teammate a tired wave. “Is Thor around?”

“Down in the lab with Jane,” Bruce said. “They're trying to translate Asgardian magic into Earth science again.”

“The Soul Forge Debates, round two?” Steve asked, and Darcy, dumping spaghetti noodles into a pan of water, laughed.

“More like round four hundred,” she said. “But at least they seem to make progress every time they do it. Thor's just not a science guy. He's more like me.”

Sam, coming into the conversation blind, cocked his head. “What does that mean?”

“Thor's a prince,” Darcy explained as she scooped leftover pasta sauce into a pan. “He knows a metric ton about politics and governance and all those kinds of things, and he's also really into history and folklore. But he's not a science guy. That's like me. I'm into politics and history and stuff, and I know all the basic kind of science that they taught in high school, but when it comes to what people like Jane and Bruce do? Whoo. I'm way out of my league.”

“That makes sense,” Sam said.

Natasha worked off her nerves by dicing up tomatoes and peppers for a salad. She was just scooping them into the bowl of lettuce to toss when her phone began to ring. She nearly dropped everything she was holding in her haste to free her hands. Darcy rescued the salad, tossing her a towel, and she wiped her hands, snatching the phone out of her pocket as fast as she could. “Romanov.”

“ _Nat! Can you hear me? I can't hear a goddamn thing! I'm riding piggyback on Tony fucking Stark doing Mach Two over the fucking Mediterranean. We'll be in New York in like an hour or so if he doesn't drop me in the goddamn ocean.”_

She felt her knees go weak with relief. “Hang up the phone and hold onto that suit, you idiot,” she said fondly. “If you let him drop you, I'll break both your legs.”

“ _Yeah, I'm sorry, who just burned all of SHIELD on fucking Wikileaks? We need to have a serious conversation when I get back.”_

“You've got it,” she replied, smiling softly. “I'll see you soon.”

The line went dead, and she pocketed her phone, and with her heart as light as it had ever been, she went to help Darcy bring food to the table.


	3. Chapter 3

When they hit the landing pad, Clint tumbled off Tony's back and lay on the floor, panting and clawing at the concrete, for a full thirty seconds while the machinery disassembled Tony's suit and vanished the pieces. The door into the common area slid open just as Tony reached over and offered Clint a hand up off the ground. “Come on, don't be a pussy.”

“Fuck you, Stark,” Clint replied, letting Tony drag him to his feet and then staggering as he struggled to find his balance. “I don't ever want to do that again. _Ever_. Next time, just leave me in Kabul to die.”

Natasha crossed the patio, reaching for his other arm, and helped keep him steady. With Tony's help, she guided his shaky steps into the common room, and they maneuvered him onto a couch. He managed to shrug his quiver off and it fell to the floor with a clatter, but he was more careful with his bow, unwinding it from around his arm and handing it off to Sam, who laid it on the table.

Steve brought a glass of water from the kitchen just as Clint did a double-take, realizing who had taken his bow. “Who the hell are you?”

Sam grinned. “Sam Wilson,” he said.

“Clint,” Steve said, nudging his shoulder with the hand holding the water glass, “this is my friend Sam. He calls himself Falcon. Sam, Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye.”

“I figured, when he handed me that giant-ass bow,” Sam replied, grinning. “How was the flight, Hawkeye?”

“Sucked balls,” Clint replied shortly, managing to get a couple good gulps of water before he had to put the glass down because his hands were shaking so badly. “Pro tip: Tony Stark ever offers to fly you anywhere, demand to see the airplane first.”

Sam laughed. “Can't say I'd have the same reaction,” he replied. “I'm a flyer myself.”

“Oh, God,” Clint moaned. “There's two of them. Nat. Help.”

Natasha laughed, dropping onto the sofa next to him and leaning her head on his shoulder. “Just take deep breaths; it'll pass.”

Clint leaned his own head against Natasha's for a few minutes. Darcy brought him a sandwich and ruffled his hair affectionately. When his hands had stopped shaking - or at least, slowed down enough that he could hold the sandwich without dropping it - he took a huge bite and groaned softly. “Oh, honey ham and mustard, Darcy, you're my favorite. Thank you.” Then he nudged Natasha with his elbow. “You wanna tell me what I missed?”

“Ah,” Natasha said. “Well.”

Tony waved a hand. “I've heard the story already. Sam, you've lived it. Wanna bring that wing-pack down to the workshop? I should have the materials on hand to repair it.”

“Seriously? Hell, yeah.” Sam dove for the pack and shouldered it quickly, following Tony out the door as the engineer began peppering him with questions about how well the pack worked and whether anything about it could be better. Darcy finished rattling around in the kitchen and moved to Steve's side, tiptoeing to press a kiss to his cheek. “I'm gonna run down to the lab and check on Bruce and Jane and Thor,” she told him. “Shout if you guys need anything.”

He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight for a long moment, then gave her a gentle kiss to the temple. “I will,” he said. After she left the room, he dragged one of the armchairs so that it was across the coffee table from Clint and Natasha, then kicked his shoes off and put his sock feet up on the table. “So,” he said, “the thing about SHIELD.”

Steve and Natasha took it in turns to tell Clint everything - absolutely everything, including the fact that Fury wasn't really dead. His eyes got bigger and bigger as they wended their way through the story, and when they had JARVIS pull up some of the available video - the gunfight on the street when Steve had seen the face of the Winter Soldier, the news footage of them being taken into custody by SHIELD/HYDRA, and more news footage of those horrible helicarriers falling into the Potomac - he went pale and more than a little green.

When they reached the end of the story, Clint sat back on the couch and found that his hands were shaking again. “Jesus Christ,” he managed to choke out after a few minutes. “Jesus  _Christ_ .”

“I know,” Steve said, his voice wry. “Believe me. I was there, and I have to keep double checking to make sure it actually happened.”

“We spoke for you,” Natasha said then. “And I know you hate it when people do that, but we had to move quickly, and I thought in this situation that you would probably be okay with what was said.” She asked JARVIS to display the video of Pepper's news conference.

Clint watched the whole thing, from beginning to end, twice. Then he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, soft but firm. “You wanna declare war on HYDRA, you sign my name to it. Damn right.” He nodded once, firmly, then sighed, shaking his head sadly. “You know,” he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur, “it's almost enough to make me glad Phil isn't here to see this. SHIELD was his life, you know?” He looked up at Steve. “It was like how you meet some guys in the Army, not the officers, but the career grunts. The ones that know three chevrons is the best they're ever gonna have, but that's okay, because they gave their life to the service and that was their choice. That was how Phil was about SHIELD.”

Steve nodded. “I know what you mean,” he said.

They sat in silence for a long few minutes before Clint sat forward, pinning Steve with his gaze. “So, what's the plan?”

“I don't have one yet,” Steve admitted. “I just got out of the hospital this morning, and we drove all day to get here, and...” He paused, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “Frankly, I feel like I'm shutting down. After everything that's happened...” he rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at his hands for a few moments. “I gave up my life to end HYDRA,” he said softly. “And finding out that it was all for nothing? Well. I thought nothing could be worse than that. Then I looked up at the man who was trying to kill me and I realized it was my brother.”

Clint bit his lip, considering. Steve had been doing that a lot recently - not that he talked about Bucky a lot, because Steve was still an old-school guy who kept his feelings pretty close to his chest. But when he did mention Bucky, he didn't call the other man his best friend; he called him his brother. Clint knew a thing or two about brothers and betrayal, and he was worried. “Steve,” he said carefully, “I know how you feel about him. I'd have to be pretty blind and stupid not to. But... what will you do if he doesn't remember you?”

“He didn't remember me a few days ago,” Steve pointed out. “He had no idea who I was. But he also had no idea who _he_ was.”

“And... okay, I'm not stupid enough to say _if_ , because I know damn good and well that you're going to find him if it takes you the rest of your life or a deal with a Crossroads Demon. Which I don't recommend, by the way; those never end well.” Clint waved off the slightly confused look on Steve's face and reminded himself to save the _Supernatural_ references for someone who would appreciate them. “My point is, when you - when _we_ \- find him, what are you gonna do if he still doesn't remember you? Not even if he tries to kill you again, because maybe he does and maybe he doesn't. But if you look into his eyes and he genuinely has no idea who you are, then what?”

“Then, if he'll let me, I'll remind him,” Steve said. His voice was soft, but his tone was resolute. “It's all I can do. I can't  _ make _ him remember; I wouldn't even know how to try to do that. But if he'll let me... I have to try.”

Clint thought about that for a minute, his eyes studying Steve's face. Finally he nodded. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I get that. I'd do the same thing with my brother, if Barney would let me. But you can't force it.” He clenched his hands on his knees and took a long, slow breath. “Okay. In my official capacity as team sniper, I would like to officially state that I am exhausted and I want some sleep. And Cap, no offense, but you look like hell, bro. You need to get some sleep, too.”

Steve nodded. “Maybe later.”

Clint stood, rounding the coffee table and laying a firm hand on Steve's shoulder. “Hey. I know. You want to sit here and think and brood about it and make plans and get out there and find him. You want it so bad it's a physical itch like bugs under your skin. I  _ get _ that. But you're not gonna do him or you or anybody else any good if you're not on top of your game. You got gut-shot two days ago and fell out of a fuckin' helicarrier into the Potomac. I bet if I looked at your stomach right now it'd still be all fresh and pink like a baby's ass. Get some sleep.”

Steve glanced at Natasha, who nodded. “All right,” he said softly. “I will.” He stood. “Probably we all should. There's a lot of work ahead of us, and not just in this search.” He raised his eyes toward the ceiling. “JARVIS, could you please let Darcy know I'm going to be in my apartment when she's done in the lab?”

“Certainly,” JARVIS replied. 

“Thank you.” He looked over at Clint and Natasha. “And thank you - both of you.”

“Anytime, Cap,” Clint replied, giving him an easy grin. Natasha just smiled. Steve pushed himself off the couch and wearily made his way down the hall to his apartment.

When Darcy came in a couple of hours later, Steve was sitting on a stool in front of his easel, working on the portrait of Bucky. He'd pronounced himself “almost satisfied” with it after a month of work just before Fury had called him to D.C. In the three months since, Darcy had become very familiar with the penciled-in face of James Barnes, since she was in and out of Steve's apartment twice a week to water his plants in addition to being there with him during his rare visits home.

She moved to stand behind Steve, resting her hands on his shoulders and watching as he worked. The changes he was making were subtle, but Darcy could see exactly what he was doing and understood. The portrait-Bucky had been clean-shaven; Steve had added a heavy stubble that was well on its way to being a full beard. The portrait-Bucky had short hair; Steve had added the suggestion of longer, unkempt locks. The portrait-Bucky's expression had held the casual, cheerful arrogance of youth; through the addition of subtle lines and shades, Steve had altered that expression. The eyes now looked almost blank, and...

“He looks confused,” Darcy said softly. “Like he's not sure what's going on, but he thinks it's not quite right.”

Steve nodded. “It's that look,” he explained. “He got it twice. Once when I called him by name on the street, and again on the helicarrier. It's... It's what makes me think maybe I can get through to him. Whatever they did to him, to his mind, I don't think it's seamless. I think it can be... fixed.”

Darcy nodded. “He doesn't look evil. He looks... lost.”

“Yeah.” Steve nodded. “They've hurt him, Darce. Whatever they did to him, they hurt him pretty bad.”

She stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. “Then when we get him back,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his temple, “we'll have to make sure we treat him really nice, to make up for it.”

He looked up at her, his vision going blurry as his eyes swam with tears. “This isn't going to be easy,” he warned her. “I... I'm probably going to be really obsessed about this. And I'll probably be gone a lot, tracking down leads, and it's not gonna be safe for you because HYDRA is everywhere.”

“I wouldn't be safe anyway,” Darcy pointed out. “The second Thor fell out of the sky in New Mexico, I got a target painted on me. HYDRA, A.I.M., anybody who might be interested in portal tech. Do you know what Tony gave me on my first day here?” She pointed at her upper arm. “A tracking implant. In case I'm ever abducted. Pepper and Jane have them, too. As for being obsessed? Hell, I would be, too. And I'll do everything I can to help with the search. Okay?”

“Okay.” He rested his head on her shoulder, his breath shuddering in his chest. “God, I love you.”

She kissed the top of his head, holding him close. “Love you, too,” she whispered.

***

The shelter offered breakfast, and he took it. Everyone formed up a line and took a thick, beige plastic tray. As they passed the people behind the counter, those people filled the trays up with quick, efficient scoops of their spoons. When he left the line, his tray held a healthy scoop of bright yellow scrambled eggs, several thick brown sausage links, a pasty-looking white biscuit (burned dark brown on the bottom), and a container of orange juice. He took the first empty seat he came to, tucking his backpack under the table between his feet, and applied himself to the food with a nearly mindless focus that did not break until every bite and crumb had been devoured. 

He couldn't remember eating, not before the sandwich yesterday, though he supposed he must have been fed at some point. What did he eat? He wondered about it for a moment, but no memories came to him, so he shrugged the thought away. Following the examples of others, he stood up, shrugged his backpack on, carried his tray to a window in the wall and handed it off to someone. Then he left the shelter. It wouldn't do to stay in one place for too long. His keepers were probably still in disarray, but once they got their feet back on the ground - and they would - 

_ (cut off one head, two more will take its place) _

they would come looking for him. He did not intend to be found.

He headed west on Constitution, keeping his pace down to an easy stroll, his hands in his jacket pockets, his head down with the brim of his hat over his eyes. He wasn't wearing the splint any more; when he woke, he'd known the break was healed, and he had tucked both the plastic piece and the bandage into his bag before going to breakfast. It was better that way; a man with an injured arm would draw more attention than a man simply going about his business.

He turned a few times, doubling back out of habit to throw off any possible pursuers, wandering in and out of unsecured public buildings. He bought a taco from a street vendor and sat on a bench to eat it, his eyes scanning the crowd restlessly, searching for any signs of pursuit. There seemed to be none. 

When he finally reached his destination, he found the riverbank empty. The ground was clearly disturbed, and he felt certain from the tracks and signs he saw that someone had found the man in the blue suit and carried him away from the place. He was sure that whoever it was had been friendly; had he been found by his enemies, they would have killed him there, and there would have been sign.

He stood on the riverbank for a long moment, studying the wreckage. The Triskellion, mostly destroyed, loomed over the great, empty hole of the hangar bay, where two of the three ships had landed. The third - the one where he had fought with the man in the blue suit, lay where it had crashed, on the other side of the river. 

He stared for a long time.

_ (you're my friend. _

_ You're my mission!) _

He replayed the fight over and over in his mind. He had stabbed the man once and shot him twice. The man had done nothing more than disable him. Then, when everything went to hell, he had been trapped under debris; the man had freed him. Had called him... that name. Had refused to fight him. Had dropped his shield.

_ (i'm not gonna fight you. you're my friend.) _

The man in the blue suit wielded the shield as a weapon. But it was also his symbol. He thought about the display at the museum, the other shield that the mannequin had held, and the way the man had used it both offensively and defensively. He thought about how it had felt in his hands, and how he had known how to use it as soon as he touched it. As though he'd done it before. As though he'd practiced with it.

_ (here, you try it. _

_ really? _

_ yeah, give it a throw. it's fun.) _

He blinked at the sound of a shout. Several hundred yards up the bank, two men were watching a small robot with rubberized claws that was hovering over the water. A bright blue light was flashing on the front of the robot, and the two men - one of whom seemed to be holding some kind of controller - had gotten very agitated. He moved closer to them, slow and stealthy, listening carefully. 

One of the men was speaking into a comm device. “I think we've found it, Mr. Stark. The blue light's flashing like crazy and the bot's just hovering there.” He paused for a moment, listening, then gestured to the other man. “Mr. Stark says to send it down.”

The man holding the controller pressed a button, and the bot dove into the river water. After a slow count of thirty, it broke the surface again; in its rubber grip was the shield.

He felt his eyebrows draw together. This wasn't right. That shield didn't belong to those men. It belonged to the man in the blue suit. 

The robot whirred its way to the riverbank and the man on the comm reached out, taking the shield from the robot. “We've got it, Mr. Stark,” he said. “It's in my hand. We'll bring it straight to you.”

The hell they would. He tightened the straps on his backpack, settled his mind and his breathing, and exploded forward out of the trees. The man with the controller went down immediately with a simple leg swipe; the second man was stupid enough to try to run away backward, cowering behind the shield he'd just stolen. In moments, that man was also on the ground, and the shield was safe.

He disappeared into the trees as quickly as he had appeared from them, finding a low spot and dropping down into it, the shield under his body. He watched the two men stagger to their feet. The one with the controller was limping a bit; the one with the comm was wiping gravel out of his abraded palms. “Mr. Stark? There's been a complication.”

After retrieving the shield, he wandered again. This time, he stayed carefully away from people; the shield was too big to hide in his backpack, and if he was seen with it, that would immediately draw the kind of attention he had to avoid. He made his way through the trees, heading in a vaguely northerly direction through Rock Creek Park, and he thought very hard about what he should do. Eventually, he decided that he needed another bag. He couldn't leave the shield anywhere; even the best hiding place could eventually be found. He would have to keep it with him, and that meant hiding it in a bag. 

But where would he get such a bag? And how could he acquire it without being seen carrying the damn shield in the first place? He sighed, frustrated with himself - and then stopped in his tracks. He could hear people talking.

He crept toward the sound of voices and discovered a group of teenagers sitting in a hollow, passing a joint around. A soft snort of amusement escaped him. Nothing to worry about. He started to melt back into the trees when he paused, his eye falling on something. One of the girls was carrying a worn out messenger bag. His eyes narrowed as he examined it, glancing down at the shield and then up at the girl with the bag.  _ Yes _ , he thought.  _ That will work. _

He melted backward, scouting around carefully for a temporary hiding spot. Up a tree would do nicely, he decided, and he scrambled quickly up the trunk of a thick oak, carefully nestling the backpack and the shield securely among the branches, hidden by the leaves. He fished the cash out of his sock, peeled off a bill, and stuck the rest back in. Then he dropped to the ground.

He walked into the middle of the group of teenagers and they panicked, but he put his hands up, focused on the girl with the bag, and used the words he'd carefully worked out in his mind. “I want to buy your bag.”

She stared at him. “Wh- what?”

“Your bag,” he said. “I want to buy it.” He held out a fifty-dollar bill. “Will you take this?”

She stared at him for a second longer, and then she snatched the bag off over her head, dumping its contents unceremoniously on the ground. “Sure!”

They made the exchange quickly. “Thank you,” he said. He stepped away. Then he disappeared into the woods.

He listened to the teenagers squawk at one another about the weird homeless guy as he fitted the shield into the bag. He'd been right; it just fit. He pulled the strap over his head, settling the bag at his right hip, and then he pulled his backpack on and dropped back down to the ground. Skirting well around the fluttering teenagers, he made his way out of the park. 

The blue-suited man was gone from the riverbank. That meant the best way to locate him was going to be through the Avengers Initiative. He needed to find them. He thought about the best way to do that. He walked while he thought, his hands in his pockets and his head down, the shield bumping gently against his hip. 

A flash of something on a television screen caught his attention. He stopped in front of a cafe and watched through the window as a pale, red-haired woman in a business suit stood at a podium to speak. He didn't care about the woman; he cared about the caption at the bottom of the screen.  _ Avengers' Initiative to be funded by Stark Industries, _ it read. Under that, in smaller letters, it said,  _ Pepper Potts, Avengers' Tower, NYC. _

New York City.

Avengers' Tower.

He had a destination. That was good. He took a look around, getting his bearings.  _ No sense sticking around here _ , he thought. He started walking in a vaguely northeasterly direction. 

Late that afternoon, he caught a ride with a man in a tractor-trailer who was making a dead-head run to Philadelphia. Neither of them was much interested in chatter, so they listened to outlaw country music on the radio the whole way. He thanked the man when he climbed out, and struck off on foot in the dark. He wasn't afraid. He could defend himself.

He decided not to go into the city; there would be police and other such official presences. Instead, he bought some food at the truck stop and made shift to camp near a highway overpass, far enough away from the road that he would not be seen. He lay among the grass and the wildflowers, smelling exhaust fumes and dirt and the cool spring air, and he stared up at the stars for a very long time. He had almost dozed off when he felt the nudge against his right leg. His eyes flew open, but there was no one looming above him. He raised his head to look, and found himself staring into a pair of huge brown eyes.

It was a brindle-colored boxer, not a puppy but still juvenile, growing fast enough to outstrip its food supply. It nudged against him again, snuffling at the shield bag. He sat up, flipped the bag open, and pulled out the patty melt that he had been planning on eating for breakfast. He offered half of it to the dog, which devoured the food in about two bites. Then, with a shrug, he ate the other half himself. He'd just have to buy more food in the morning.

He lay back again, pillowing his head on his backpack, and the dog curled up beside him, resting its head on his hip. He reached down with his right hand and stroked the dog's head, marveling slightly as it nudged into his touch before falling asleep right there on top of him.

He stared at the sleeping animal for a very long time.  _ Huh _ , he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on timelines, because I realized as I was writing this that I'd confused myself.
> 
> Day 0 is the crashing of the helicarriers and Bucky going to the clinic as seen in ch. 1.  
> Day 1 is Steve waking in the hospital and Bucky getting his shower and going to the museum as seen in ch. 2.  
> Day 2 is Steve, Sam and Darcy coming back to the tower, Tony getting Clint, and everything in this chapter. 
> 
> So as of the end of this chapter, I *should* have both Bucky's POV and the Avengers' POV running at approximately the same time. Hope this helps anyone I might have confused.


	4. Chapter 4

“Hey, Cap, can you swing down to the workshop for a minute?”

Steve blinked as Tony's voice filtered through the intercom in his kitchen at a quarter to eight in the morning. Whatever it was, it must be important. “Sure,” he said. “Let me grab some pants and I'll be right there.”

Darcy was still asleep when he finished dressing in jeans and a blue-and-white striped rugby shirt, so he left her a note. Then he trotted downstairs, pulling his shoes on at the front door, and headed out and down to Tony's workshop. 

There were two men in the workshop with Tony, and Tony waved at them when Steve came in. “Cap, this is Jed Baker and Randy Wentcuff. They do odd jobs for me. Everything from corporate espionage to fact-finding missions.” Both men nodded politely at Steve, and he nodded back. Tony continued. “I sent them down to D.C. with a sniffer bot. Natasha told us you lost your shield and she figured it was at the bottom of the Potomac, so I thought it'd be a good idea to go find it before one of HYDRA's people did.”

Steve nodded. “Thank you, Tony,” he said. “I was actually planning on heading back down in a couple of days; I have a general idea of where it fell, so I figured I'd just go in after it.”

Tony waved a hand. “No need. The sniffer bots can detect damn near anything just based on molecular composition; setting it for vibranium took about ten minutes and finding the shield only took, what, twenty more?”

Wentcuff nodded. “Just about. We started looking near where you were found on the riverbank, Captain, and worked a grid pattern out from there. The bot indicated the presence of vibranium, we double checked with Mr. Stark, and he said to send it down. We did, and when it came up, it had your shield.”

“Great!” Steve said. Then he looked around. “Where is it?”

“Well, you see,” Baker took up the story, “that's where things get weird.”

Steve tilted his head a bit. “Weird how?”

“I'd just taken the shield from the bot, and we were getting ready to pack it all up and hightail it out of there before someone found us - Mr. Stark having warned us that there might be trouble in that area, what with those neo-Nazi freaks and all. But like I say, I'd literally just got the shield in my hand, and this homeless guy came blasting out of the trees, knocked Wentcuff on his ass, snatched it right out of my hands, and then he was just  _ gone  _ with it.”

Steve blinked. “Gone?”

Wentcuff nodded. “Like he'd never been there, except there I was on my ass, and Baker on his, and the bot hovering there looking at us like it had never seen two guys do anything more stupid than let some crazy homeless fucker steal Captain America's shield.” He paused. “Pardon my French.”

“I  _ was _ in the Army, Mr. Wentcuff,” Steve replied dryly. “I've heard the word fuck before. Even maybe said it once or twice, unless that'll tarnish my squeaky clean image.” He parked himself on a stool, rubbing at his chin. “You're sure it wasn't one of HYDRA's people?”

“Absolutely sure,” Baker replied. “This dude was clearly homeless. Scraggly beard, long hair, crazy eyes. I just can't understand how he got the drop on us.”

Steve's eyes narrowed. He glanced at Tony. “Can I borrow a pencil and a piece of scratch paper?”

“Sure.” Tony handed over the requested items, then watched with interest. 

Steve bent over the workbench and began sketching, his pencil moving frantically across the page. When he was finished, he offered the drawing to Baker. “Your crazy homeless guy look anything like that?”

“Hey, yeah!” Wentcuff said, leaning over Baker's shoulder to look at the drawing. “He was wearing a baseball cap, but that's definitely him.”

Steve nodded, his lips pressing together as his eyes met Tony's. “Bucky,” he said simply.

Tony stared at him. “Bucky?”

Steve nodded, taking the sketch back and handing it to Tony. “That's what he looked like the last time I saw him, when we fought on the helicarrier. He's really unkempt, which would drive him nuts if he was in his right mind. Bucky was always very particular about his appearance.”

Tony nodded, looking down at the sketch. Then he laid it out on the workbench's surface. “JARVIS, scan that image and start running facial recognition on any traffic or security camera footage you can access in the D.C. Area, beginning yesterday after the time of the attack. We need to find him as quickly as we can.”

“Searching,” JARVIS replied.

“You'd think it wouldn't be too hard to locate a guy carrying Cap's shield,” Baker commented.

Steve shook his head. “He'll hide the shield. He has to know it's too noticeable; even if it wasn't my shield, a guy carrying something like that gets noticed just because it's out of the ordinary.”

_ Or he'll take it back to his HYDRA bosses _ , Tony thought but didn't say. 

After Baker and Wentcuff left, Steve turned to Tony. “I need to talk to you about something,” he said. “And I want you to understand before I start that I understand how this might sound, and I don't mean to indicate that I would ever suspect you of anything, but I have to ask, for my own peace of mind.”

Tony studied Steve's face for a long moment. “JARVIS,” he said, “engage privacy mode.”

The door lock clicked, and the glass front wall of the workshop turned opaque with a soft crackling noise. “Privacy mode engaged,” JARVIS required. “All security cameras are off.”

“Thank you,” Tony said. He leaned against the workbench. “What's on your mind, Steve?”

Steve sat down on the stool. “Darcy told me last night that you put a tracking device in her arm.”

Tony nodded. “I did. When she and Foster first came to the tower. They're both targets; Foster because of her work and her association with Thor, and Darcy because of  _ her _ association with Foster and Thor. And now you, and the rest of us.” He paused. “Pepper has one, too,” he offered, as though it might help make things better.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, trying to work out how to say what he needed to say. “The thing is,” he said, then stopped. He stood up and paced for a minute, then tried again. “The thing is. Those carriers that SHIELD was building. With the satellites and Zola's algorithm. And now there's a bug in Darcy's arm, and you're using surveillance cameras to hunt for Bucky. And I'm...”

Tony nodded, understanding. “You're uncomfortable with the implied invasion of your privacy?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Steve said. “JARVIS is one thing, but...”

Tony nodded. “I understand. And in part, I agree with you. I think there's a hell of a lot of surveillance that goes on these days that's unnecessary and intrusive. Am I above using it for my own means? No, I'm not. One of the things I've learned fighting the guys we fight against is that you use any means necessary as long as you're not selling your soul in the process. In this case, it feels to me like turning their own tools against them. And there's a line there that I won't cross; I'm not peeking inside people's houses, or their brains, the way Zola's algorithm did. I'm asking JARVIS to look at people's faces  _ in public _ and tell me not what they're doing, but only if he sees one who matches Bucky's description.”

Steve nodded. He could accept that. “And Darcy?”

Tony held up a finger. “I really think that's a conversation you should be having with her. But I will say this. I gave Darcy a choice on the tracking devices. I have several types, and most of them masquerade as jewelry of some kind. She  _ opted _ for the implanted one, because she thought it would help her feel safer. There are very strict parameters under which the implant gets activated, her usual movements are not tracked, and if she ever decides she wants it out, I can have it out of her in under five minutes.”

Steve chewed his lip, considering Tony's words. Finally he nodded. “I think you're right,” he said. “This is definitely something I should be talking to her about. I feel like there's a rant about paternalism and masculine posturing waiting on me if she ever finds out I said anything to you about this.”

Tony laughed. “I know there is,” he replied. “And it's super effective. You'll go from zero to emasculated before she even gets the words 'Gloria Steinem' out of her mouth.”

“You've got to admit, she's got a point about some things,” Steve said easily. “Not that that means I have to like it.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I wonder how we ended up together. We're so different; we'd never work on paper.”

“Maybe that's why,” Tony suggested. When Steve cocked an eyebrow at him, he continued. “On paper, Pep and I don't work either. We're both workaholics, with the added bonus of spending a lot of time on opposite coasts. Our personalities are completely different, and mine comes with added PTSD and assorted other issues, and you have to know I drive her up a wall at least three times a day. On a good day. There have been times, Stevie-boy, when I have thought to myself that if I had to hear her say my name one more time in that tone that lets me know just how  _ disappointed _ she is in me, I'd cheerfully hand  _ myself _ over to HYDRA.” He paused, then shook his head. “But then there are times when everything's quiet, and she looks at me, and I just...” He swallowed and looked away. “I don't know what I'd do if she ever decided I wasn't worth the trouble any more.”

Steve reached out and squeezed Tony's shoulder warmly. “I know exactly what you mean,” he said simply.

That afternoon, while JARVIS continued to run facial recognition scans through all of the public video feeds he could access in the D.C. Area, the team gathered in the main common room to discuss the situation. Darcy had spent the morning giving Thor a crash course in HYDRA, and he was as anxious as the rest of the team to develop some kind of plan of action.

Unfortunately, no one really had any idea what to do. 

They opened the brief by introducing Sam to everyone - he'd already met about half the team, but this was more formal. Sam explained his skill set, with some input from Tony about the wingsuit and its capabilities. When Natasha commented easily that the team could always use more air support, though, he actually looked startled. “Wait, is this me actually  _ joining _ the Avengers?” he asked. “I thought I was just coming in as backup on the Bucky thing.”

“This is us formally inviting you to join,” Steve replied. “Like Natasha said, we can always use more air support. And you've more than proved yourself in battle. We want you, if you'll have us.”

“There are pretty awesome perks,” Tony added, a slight but obvious wheedle in his tone. “You get an apartment here and access to all the fun stuff.”

“Of course, there's drawbacks,” Clint added, settling back in his chair. “Thor, Steve, Nat, and Bruce are all superpowered. That comes with super healing and all kinds of other fun perks. Tony's got a suit of armor. You've got... wings.”

Sam bristled. “Yeah? Well, what have you got?”

Clint leaned forward. “That's my point. When those aliens came out of the sky, I'm the one that got compromised, and I'm the one that spent three weeks afterward limping everywhere I went and wheezing through cracked ribs. These assholes?” He waved a hand. “Tony had some bruises, but everybody else was up and at 'em by the third  _ day _ . My point is, Sam, you gotta weigh the pros and the cons. Yeah, there's some pretty awesome pros, but for non-amped normals like me and you, there's some pretty heavy cons that come with it.”

Sam leaned back, rubbing at his chin and studying Clint's face. “You got a point,” he admitted. “But man, I can't just... sit back and do nothing. Not knowing this stuff's going on right under my nose like that. It's like Edmund Burke said. 'All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.' And I may not be amped, but I can't just sit around and do nothing.”

Bruce smiled. “Welcome to the team.”

After that, not much got accomplished. HYDRA hadn't actually done anything yet - they appeared to still be extremely disorganized. But Tony was able to present some interesting information that gave the team hope. “There appears to be some coordinated resistance from within SHIELD itself,” he said. “I've been doing some digging. Most of my lines in got severed when the Triskellion burned, but I had some on the main helicarrier - the one that's still in the air - and I've had bots doing all the data-mining I could since Natasha called with the news. SHIELD had more facilities than just that one; there's a Hub somewhere that seems to be their main back-end location, but it's classified level 10 and I haven't located it yet. Wherever it is, there was apparently a hell of an uprising there. They reported quite a lot of casualties, but in the end - according to the data, anyway - apparently HYDRA lost.”

He paused. “What's really interesting,” he said, “is what I found on the security footage.” He looked around the table at them. “Before I show you this, I want to address the obvious questions that are going to be the first ones out of everyone's mouth. No, this is not a joke. No, it's not a trick. This footage is authentic. It came off the servers this morning, and I've only been sitting on it because I wanted everyone together before I dropped this tactical nuke.”

Natasha growled. “For the love of God, Stark, just spit it out.”

Tony said, “JARVIS, would you please play that footage from earlier?”

The holoscreen on the wall lit up, and everyone except Sam came out of their seats, staring in shock at the clear video footage of a very much alive Phil Coulson, in the Hub, fighting against HYDRA agents in hand-to-hand combat.

***

The dog was still there when the creeping fingers of dawn began to slide across the sky. It wagged its tail at him when he sat up and scrubbed at his face with his right hand. He looked down at it.  _ Huh _ , he thought again. Then he rubbed at the dog's head. It seemed to like that, so he did it again. The dog panted, and then whined, nosing at the shield bag. There was no more food in the bag, though.

He stood up, brushing grass and dirt off his clothes, and started walking back toward the truck stop where he'd been left off the previous night. The dog followed. 

The parking lot was busy this morning, so he skirted its edge, mindful that the dog could be hurt. There was a sign on the restaurant door that said NO PETS, so he pushed the dog back when he opened the door, leaving it outside. He went up to the counter and slid onto a stool, studying the menu. The sheer number of options was terrifying. He stared at the words on the menu until they all blurred together in his head, a whirlwind of choices that he wasn't prepared for.

And then, quite suddenly, there was a waitress standing in front of him with an impatient expression on her face. He realized that she must have been standing there for at least a few moments, and he had not responded. He said, “I'm sorry.”

Her face shifted from annoyance to a busy tiredness. “No worries,” she said. “What can I get for you?”

“I, um.” He looked down at the menu again, swallowing hard. Helplessly he pointed at one of the pictures - a thick cheeseburger with french fries. “That, please,” he said. 

“Anything to drink?”

That, he knew. “Coffee.”

She nodded. “Do you want to eat here, or take it to go?”

He looked around at the restaurant, which was getting crowded. “To go,” he said finally. She nodded and started to walk away when he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. Through the window, he could see the dog. It was sitting nearby, watching the door. Waiting for him. His hand went out, almost on autopilot, catching her attention again. She raised an eyebrow, and he said, “Actually. Two sandwiches. Please.” She raised the other eyebrow, but didn't ask; she just nodded, turned, and shouted his food at the short-order cook.

He turned in his seat, watching the dog while he waited for his food. The dog had lain down in the grass at the edge of the parking lot, and was watching the door, patiently waiting. For him. He wasn't sure how he felt about that, so he decided not to think about it. He turned back to watch the short-order cook making his hamburgers. They were assembled quickly, thick with brown meat, bright green lettuce, purple-edged onions, brilliant red tomatoes. The french fries came out of the grease and they were perfectly golden, lying around the hamburgers in their boxes. Duller green pickle spears went in next, and the boxes were closed, stacked, stuck into a plastic bag. 

  
The waitress brought them to him, along with a large styrofoam cup full of coffee. He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. She offered him change, but he waved it off, taking his food in his hands. “Thank you,” he said to her. Then he turned and left the restaurant.

The dog came trotting up to him as soon as he came outside, almost like it knew him. He felt his lips stretch a little bit in something that might have been a smile. The dog nosed at the bag in his hand, whuffing and panting and wagging its tail, and he crossed the parking lot again, heading to a wide open area where buses and RVs parked. There was a picnic table near the air machine, and nobody was sitting at it. He claimed it and opened up the boxes of food. He took the vegetables off the dog's hamburger and transferred half of the dog's french fries into his own box. Then he put the dog's box on the ground and they both ate greedily.

When they had both finished, he picked up the boxes and put them back in the plastic bag. Then he drank his coffee, enjoying the chance to simply sit there, stroking the dog's head. When the coffee was finished, he carried all the trash to the trash can. Then he started across the parking lot once more, heading for the highway.

He was almost there when a small blue pickup truck pulled off in front of him. The man driving it was very large, bald, with black skin. He leaned out of the open window and said, “Need a lift?”

“Yes.”

“Where you headed?”

“New York.”

The man jerked a thumb at the bed of the truck. “Dog rides in the back,” he said.

He lowered the truck's tail gate and pointed. The dog jumped up, turned around several times, and then lay down. He closed the bed of the truck, then walked around and climbed into the cab. “Thank you,” he said.

“No problem, man. Seen you sitting over there feeding your dog and I thought you looked like a man who could use a hand getting someplace.” The man pulled his truck back out and onto the highway. “You goin' into the city itself?”

He nodded. “Avengers' Tower,” he said simply.

The driver laughed. “Tony Stark's huge dick,” he said, laughing at his own joke. “Lucky for you, man, I'm heading damn near right past there. I'm heading into Harlem, myself.”

He worried, for a moment. This man was jovial, cheerful, talkative. Would he have to talk back? He'd managed well enough with the waitress, but this was much more than just ordering breakfast. Talking was still very hard. Fortunately, it turned out that this was not the case; the cheerful man kept up a steady stream of monologue - his family, his work, his children, his neighbors, those damn kids that hung out down on the corner rapping all the time - and required little more than occasional affirmative noises to indicate that he still had an audience. 

A little over two hours later, the blue truck pulled onto a side street in Harlem and the driver cut the engine. “You know where you're headed from here?” he asked. “How to get there, I mean.”

There was a moment of thought before he replied, “No.”

The driver grinned. “Go three blocks that direction,” he said, pointing. “Then turn right on Madison. It's way down past Central Park, but by the time you get to the top of the park, you'll be able to see it. Hell, you can't hardly miss it. Gigantic monument to Tony Stark's ego, with a huge-ass A on the side of it.”

He nodded, unbuckling his seat belt and climbing out of the truck's cab. The dog whined at him until he lowered the tailgate to let it scramble out. He turned back to the man who'd brought him all this way. “Thank you,” he said. He was surprised at how many times he'd said those two words over the last three days, and how much he meant them. They were starting to roll off his tongue very easily.

The bald man smiled at him. “You're welcome,” he said. “Good luck to you, man.”

He nodded, then he turned and headed toward Madison Avenue. The dog trotted along at his side, the shield bumped gently at his hip. The city buzzed with life around him. People crowded the sidewalks; cars filled the streets. Nobody noticed him, which he liked a lot. He turned right on Madison, as instructed, and blinked at the sight. 

He wouldn't have to wait until he reached the park; he could see Avengers' Tower from there. It wasn't the tallest building around, but it was pretty close, and the distinctive A on the side of the building was unmistakable. He nodded to himself, put his head down, and walked.

Near midafternoon, he got lunch from a food truck in the shadow of Avengers' Tower. He and the dog retreated to a nearby park to eat, and he managed to relax enough, in the bright sunshine and with the dog lying beside him, to doze off for about half an hour. Though he didn't sleep deeply - that would be incredibly stupid - he felt refreshed when he opened his eyes, and he scratched the dog's head as he sat there, staring up at the tower. 

He wondered if the man in the blue suit was inside. He wondered if the man in the blue suit would come out. He wondered

_ (bucky? _

_ who the hell is bucky?) _

if he went inside and asked for him, if he showed someone the shield, if they would get the man for him and make him come. He sat there until night fell, wondering. As the sun faded out of the sky, he got up and started looking for a safe place to spend the night.

Ironically enough, he found what he was looking for at the foot of the tower itself: a maintenance alcove of some kind, set a few steps down, with a door that had been left ajar by some careless worker. He slipped in and the dog followed him, and the two of them curled up together, his back against the door. With the dog's head on his hip and the sound of machinery running above him, he slept.

When he woke the next morning, he and the dog slipped back out again, moving carefully to avoid detection. He bought them both breakfast from a food truck, and he wandered slowly around the foot of the tower, studying it carefully. 

There was no way the man in the blue suit would come out the front door; it was swarming with people, and some of them had cameras and microphones. One side of the building, where he had slept, had no outside access at all. The entrance at the back of the building let into a parking garage; there would undoubtedly be movement there, but it wouldn't help him. The fourth side, though, was very interesting indeed.

Like the maintenance hatch where he'd slept the previous night, this door was set down into the ground and looked unassuming. But there was something about it that said, to his practiced eye, that it got used. He wandered up the block a little ways, looking for someplace to sit; he found the mouth of an alley and made himself an unassuming lump on the ground. The dog flopped down next to him, clearly unconcerned.

He watched the door. 

Around midmorning, it opened. A well-built man with short blond hair came out. He was followed by a slender black man with a goatee. He recognized that man; that man had been on the helicarrier, wearing some kind of rocket pack with wings. He remembered fighting that man, kicking him off the helicarrier and into the air. He was glad to see that the man appeared unhurt. He didn't like to think about hurting people.

_ (you're my mission) _

The two men walked away from the tower together, chatting amiably about something. Sometime later, they came back again, carrying bags and boxes of food. They went back into the tower the same way they'd come out. 

If the man with the wings was there, the man with the blue suit was there also. He was certain of it. 

He watched the door.

Around midafternoon, he left his spot and walked to the nearest food vendor. This time it was hot dogs, and he got two with everything for himself and two plain for the dog. He returned to the alley. He and the dog ate. He watched the door.

It was almost dark when the door opened again. This time, a small, curvy brunette woman came out. She was talking animatedly about something to someone behind her, and when the two of them reached the street level, he felt his breathing stop for just a moment.

_ (that man on the bridge. who was he?) _

He watched the man in the blue suit - now a man in a green tee shirt and blue jeans - wrap his arm around the brunette's shoulders. She leaned into his touch, her arm coming up to wrap around his waist. The two of them started up the street. He waited for them to get almost out of sight, and then he followed, the dog at his side and the shield bumping against his hip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline note, since I know it's still a little confusing: Day 3 is everything that happens inside Avengers Tower; Bucky's perspective covers days 3 and 4. Pretty soon the two timelines will converge completely, so hopefully the confusion will go away then.


	5. Chapter 5

For the next few days, very little got accomplished. They were a team, and they had never felt more like a team than they did then - except for maybe that one time when they all gelled spectacularly and saved the freaking world - but they were a team made up entirely of action people. They had no back-line support, they had no logistical control, and they had no ears on the ground gathering intel. They were a finely crafted weapon with no target.

“We're just as disorganized as HYDRA is,” Steve grumbled one night as he sprawled out on Darcy's couch, his feet in her lap. “Maybe worse. At least they have a structure that they're trying to rebuild.”

It had been a full seven days since the helicarriers crashed and the Triskellion burned. A little bit of information was coming out, and of course Tony's hard lines in were helping with that quite a lot. Just that day, the press had erupted with the scandal that Senator Stern, who had lobbied so hard to have Tony's armor confiscated by the government, had been arrested and was being charged with HYDRA-related activities; Tony had been crowing about it all afternoon.

From under the arm he had over his face, Steve gave Darcy his best puppy-dog eyes. She laughed, put some lotion into her hands, and began rubbing at his feet. “So let's think about this as logically as we can,” she said. “What did SHIELD give us that we now lack and need to recreate in order to function properly?”

He thought about it while her thumbs dug into the ball of his right foot. “Background support,” he finally said. “We're ready to go up against whatever threat there might be, but we don't have anyone to tell us what the threat is. We've got intel coming in, but it's only partial intel, and we don't have anyone to sift through it and tell us what's real and what isn't.”

“Right. So, analysts and back-end support. Well, we can build that. Right? You said Fury's still alive, and Hill, and they had a whole underground facility. So we need to connect with them. Yeah?”

Steve nodded slowly, tucking his hands behind his head and watching her as she worked her way up to his ankle. “Yeah.  _ If _ they're straight with us. Honestly, I still don't trust Fury as far as I could throw him.”

“I wouldn't trust him as far as  _ I _ could throw him, and that's a lot shorter distance,” she replied, switching to his left foot. “But it's a start for now. And this is just a thought, but I feel like we'll probably be best off if we avoid covert work. At least for now. If they want to work with us - and you know they do - then fine. We'll do like the Fantastic Four does. When Victor von Doom comes crashing up Park Avenue with bots, when Loki opens a giant hole in the sky, when Magneto tries to take over the world, we're there for that. But this cloak and dagger stuff, where we don't know who the real enemy is and maybe it's actually us? No. We don't do that.”

He scratched at his head as he thought about it. “I don't know how firm we can be about that,” he admitted. “A lot of the fight against HYDRA might end up being covert.”

She shook her head. “No. That's how they infiltrated in the first place. Look, what grows in the dark dies in the light, right? So when we find HYDRA, we don't lock them up in shady places - we expose them and their gross ideals and opinions to the light of public scrutiny. If we find incontrovertible evidence that, say, some Senator is working for them, we expose them that way. We're not going to win the fight against HYDRA with brute force. I hate to say this, but you tried that, and it didn't work.”

“Cut off the head, two more grow in its place,” he muttered, his face twisting.

“But listen to this.” She wiped her hands on his legs, rubbing the last of the greasy lotion away, and reached for her StarkPad.  She began to read. “According to Wikipedia, which is of course  _ not _ a scholarly resource, but it'll do for now, the Laernean Hydra had nine heads, poisonous breath, and blood so virulent that even its tracks were deadly. But Hercules, with the help of his nephew and/or plucky kid sidekick Iolaus, killed it. There's two versions of the story. In one version, Hercules cuts the heads off, and Iolaus uses a torch to cauterize the stumps. In the other version, though, after cutting off the first head, Hercules coated his sword in the Hydra's own poisonous blood, and used that to keep the heads from growing back.”

Steve considered that. “He used the Hydra's own venom to kill it.”

Darcy nodded. “Exactly.”

“That's...” He paused, staring at her. “Tony said something the other day about using their surveillance against them.”

Darcy nodded. “That's one weapon in our arsenal. I'm sure we'll think of others.”

Steve nodded back. “And the logistical support...”

“We'll build that,” Darcy replied. “From the ground up, if we have to. That's actually the new job Pepper has for me; she wants to put me in charge of herding superheroes.”

Steve hummed softly as he thought about that. “You'd be good at it.”

“Are you kidding?” She grinned. “I'm going to be  _ amazing _ at it.”

Naturally, it was the next morning that Maria Hill walked into Human Resources with her resume in her hand. JARVIS alerted Darcy a little after ten o'clock, as she was lounging in the lab with Jane and sketching out some ideas for her new department on a legal pad. “Miss Lewis,” he said, “I wish to inform you that one of the individuals flagged in the system as high priority has entered the tower and been granted access to the thirtieth floor.”

“HR?” Darcy said. “Who is it, JARVIS?”

“Agent Maria Hill,” he replied. Darcy bounced up out of her seat. “Please alert HR to have her shown immediately to an interview room. I'll be down there as fast as I can. Also, please alert Pepper and Tony.”

“Miss Potts is still in Malibu,” JARVIS pointed out, his voice keeping pace with Darcy as she bolted up the hallway toward the elevator.

“I know,” Darcy said. “Tell her anyway. Let her know I'm handling it.”

“Very well,” JARVIS replied. He double-timed her elevator back to her floor, and once she was in her apartment, she raced upstairs to her bedroom, shucking her jeans and sweater and trading them for the pantsuit Pepper had helped her buy just for occasions like this. Her Stark Industries identification badge was already clipped to the lapel. She dashed into the bathroom to pull her hair up into a quick knot at the base of her neck and double check her makeup, then grabbed the shoes that matched the suit and, barefoot, hurried back out to the elevator again. 

She slipped the shoes on as the elevator opened on the thirtieth floor, and strode up to the desk like she owned the place. She smiled at the receptionist. “Hey, Jared.”

He looked up and smiled back. “Miss Lewis!” he said. “I got your message about Miss Hill.” He offered her a faux-leather portfolio folder. She flipped it open and found Hill's resume inside, as well as the cursory background check that was standard for any Stark Industries applicant. She nodded. “Thanks. I'll be taking this one myself.”

His eyed widened. “Sure thing, Miss Lewis. She's in Room Twelve. Will you be needing anything?”

“Nope. Thank you, Jared.” With a quick nod to the young man, she swept past him and down the hall to the indicated room. She stopped just outside the room and took a deep breath, trying to calm her pounding heart. She couldn't help but be excited; this might be  _ exactly _ what they needed. If only. She smoothed her palms down over the soft fabric of her jacket, took another deep breath, and pushed the door open.

“Miss Hill,” she said, greeting the dark-haired woman who sat in the visitor's chair. “I'm Darcy Lewis.”

Hill stood, offering her hand to shake, and Darcy shook it. They exchanged polite smiles. “Thank you for seeing me so soon, Miss Lewis,” Hill said. “I admit, I was kind of surprised when the gentleman outside told me to come on back here.”

Darcy moved around the empty desk and sat down in the chair, setting the portfolio to the side and folding her hands on the shiny surface as Hill seated herself. She leveled the other woman with a look. “Let's can the crap, Agent Hill, shall we?” Darcy said. “You're not here for a job. You're here about the Initiative.”

Hill blinked. “Have we met?”

“No,” Darcy replied. “But I've dealt with SHIELD. I was in New Mexico for first contact with Thor.”

There was a moment of silence before the piece clicked in Hill's mind. “Foster's assistant,” she said. “You dealt with Phil Coulson.”

“Yes, I did,” Darcy said. “Good man. Shame about him being dead. Or, you know, not being dead, as the case may be.”

Hill grimaced. “I told Fury that would come back to bite us with the Avengers.”

“Yeah, well, you were right. Fortunately for you, we need you more than we need to hold a grudge. Or, more specifically, we need your connections.” She sat back in her chair. “Captain Rogers seems to be under the impression that you and Fury have a whole little underground network of loyalists who are capable of doing at least some of the job SHIELD used to do. We want access to that.”

Hill sat forward, smiling slightly. “I'm listening.”

“Here's what we're offering. We're a point team without any logistical or intel support. You're a logistical and intel team with no point. We think we can work together, but only under very specific conditions which are to be determined through negotiations with the entire team. The most important of those conditions are that the whole works comes under the auspices of Stark Industries, and I'm the funnel. Everything comes from your team to you, from you to me, and from me to the Avengers. And everyone - absolutely  _ everyone _ \- on your end gets totally vetted through our system. This is non-negotiable.”

“I'm good with that,” Hill said instantly. “When do we start?”

Darcy smiled. She stood up and offered her hand to Maria. “Right now,” she said as Maria stood and shook it. “Welcome to the Initiative, Agent Hill.”

***

The man in the blue suit and his woman had gone up the street to a restaurant and had dinner, sitting in a secluded corner where it had been hard for him to see them. He had watched their silhouettes from a distance, though, while they ate and talked, looking very affectionate but also very serious. There was something about the man in the blue suit that was different when he was in street clothes. In the suit, he was forbidding and powerful, even when he refused to do battle.

_ (i'm not gonna fight you. you're my friend.) _

In street clothes, he was still powerful, but... he was different. More ordinary. Almost familiar.

He thought about the pictures of the man in the blue suit with his friend, the one it hurt to think about. His mind shied away from that name

_ (james buchanan barnes) _

but he thought of the two of them, in conversation, smiling, laughing at some joke. He watched the man in the blue suit as he talked with his woman over dinner. The smile was still there, but it was rarer. It was

_ (you've known me your whole life) _

sad. He didn't like that. He didn't know why, couldn't understand, he reached for it, he struggled with his mind, but it was blank, there was nothing, there was just a door and it was locked and he couldn't break through no matter how he hammered on it. 

_ (wipe him and start over.) _

The dog whined at him. He looked down at it. Raised his left hand. Studied the metal. 

He laid the metal hand on the dog's head. Felt the pressure, the warmth, the shape of the bones in the dog's head and neck. He brought his right hand up, rubbing at the underside of the dog's chin. Felt the scratchy-soft fur. The dog pressed into his side, and he petted it. Used both hands, since the dog seemed to like that. Felt the tension that had been building up inside of him slowly ease as the dog's tail rocked back and forth like a metronome.

He calmed.

He watched the man in the blue suit and his woman finish their dinner, pay, wrap their arms around one another and make their way back up the street toward the tower. He followed, in the shadows.

He stayed in the alley for three more days, sleeping curled up with the dog behind a Dumpster, eating food that he bought from nearby vendors and food trucks. He patronized the hot dog vendor every day, because the hot dog vendor had taken a liking to the dog, and would save dropped buns and wieners for the dog to eat. He remembered to say thank you, and the vendor would sometimes clap him on the shoulder and give him a sad smile.

He thought maybe the vendor had seen men like him before, men whose minds were broken. He didn't ask. 

He watched for three days as people came and went by that hidden door. He never tried to enter; it required a digital code as well as a retinal scan, so that would have been pointless. But he watched. He saw the slender black man again, the stocky blond man, and a red-haired woman whom he remembered from the bridge. She'd tried to garrotte him. She was good; he wondered about her.

Once, he saw a second blond man, bigger than all the others, accompanied by a tiny brown-haired woman who could've almost fit inside the leg of his jeans. The contrast between their sizes made him snort softly in amusement, as did the obvious joy they took in each other's presence.

He never saw the man in the blue suit, though his woman came out two or three times a day, often going up the street to a coffee shop and coming back with trays of coffee and bags of pastries. He watched her closely. She wore glasses, jeans, and pretty tops that flattered her figure and showed off her chest. She usually wore her hair down, falling in thick waves around her shoulders and sometimes in her face. But what drew his attention was her smile. Her smile was bright and wide, quick and ready, and she used it a lot. She laughed freely and easily, and when that sound escaped her, it would drift across to his hiding place and warm him from the inside.

He thought to himself once that the man in the blue suit must value her greatly; she never seemed to leave the tower alone, and that was probably wise. She would be in danger if she did. He felt certain that HYDRA must know about her, and they would not hesitate to use her against the man in the blue suit if they thought the leverage would help them achieve their aims.

_ (your work has been a gift to mankind. you shaped the century.) _

That could not be allowed. He wasn't sure how, but at some point over the last seven days, he had come to the conclusion that HYDRA was wrong. The things they had told him were wrong. The things they had made him do were wrong. And they needed to be stopped.

He touched the canvas of the bag holding the shield. He knew the shield. The shield had protected him once. The man carrying it had

_ (you've known me your whole life) _

refused to harm him; when given the chance to kill, had only disabled. When given the chance to let him die, had saved him. 

The man in the blue suit could help him. And he felt sure that if he approached that man, that man  _ would _ help him. But he didn't see the man in the blue suit any more. He only saw those others. He didn't know those others, and the ones he'd fought against might still be angry with him. They didn't know him, they had never said

_ (james buchanan barnes) _

kind words to him. They might not. They might try to hurt him, and he was tired, so tired, of being hurt. Everything was pain and he didn't want pain any more. 

The dog whined at him, and he looked down at it, rubbing its head and calming himself. He looked up as the door at the foot of the tower opened up, and watched as the blue-suited man's woman came out. She trotted up the stairs, leaning her head to one side and sticking something into her ears as she went, and he blinked in surprise, realizing suddenly that she was alone.

She was alone.

He watched her go up the block to her favorite coffee shop. He stood up. He crossed the road, his backpack heavy on his shoulders, the shield bouncing gently against his hip, the dog beside him. His eyes never left the front door of the coffee shop.

He waited. There was a concrete planter that held a couple of scrawny trees; he sat down on its lip. The dog sprawled down beside him. He watched.

Fifteen minutes passed. The door of the coffee shop opened. The woman came out. She was carrying two paper cups of coffee. She wasn't paying much attention to her surroundings. She strolled back down the sidewalk, smiling cheerfully at everyone she passed. He swallowed hard, looking down at the concrete. 

She came even with him, stepping a little bit to the side to avoid the dog. He reached out with his right hand and touched her arm with his fingertips, pulling his hand back immediately after, curling it up against his chest, hoping to appear nonthreatening.

She stopped. She turned to face him.

He held his breath, staring at the concrete.

She tugged on the little white wires that were running from her pocket to her ears; when they came loose, he heard noise for a moment before it abruptly cut off. She spoke, and her voice was calm and gentle. “Are you okay?” she asked him, and he struggled to answer, but he couldn't make words come. She put the coffees down on the wide edge of the planter and took a tentative step toward him. “Do you need some help?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. “Yes.” It hurt, pushing the word out. He gritted his teeth. Then he scrabbled at the flap of the messenger bag. He looked around carefully without raising his head, and then he pulled the bag open for just a second - just long enough for her to see what was inside it. He heard her gasp, and he dropped the canvas again. There was silence between them for a moment before he managed to raise his head and look at her.

Her face was pale. Behind her glasses, her eyes were huge and shocked. She looked like she was about to scream. But then, quite suddenly, something changed. Her eyes searched his face, and her shoulders relaxed, and normal color began to return, and she said, very softly, “Hi, there.”

***

_ Bucky. It's Bucky. Holy shit this is Bucky fucking Barnes holy shit right here in front of me holy shit looking straight at me like -like - like I'm going to hurt him. Why does he look like that? _

Darcy's mind screeched to a halt when she registered Bucky's expression. He looked genuinely afraid of her.  _ Her _ . Her brain stuttered. And suddenly she thought of Natasha, sitting in the common room a few nights ago, explaining with a flat expression and an emotionless tone just exactly how assets were conditioned in the Red Room.  _ No wonder he looks terrified _ , she thought.

And just like that, her paralysis broke. “Hi, there,” she said, using the kind of tone she'd use on a hurt animal or a lost child.

He looked down at the sidewalk again. She swallowed hard. “I'm Darcy,” she said. “That's my name. Do you mind if I sit down with you?”

He shook his head, and she sat down beside him, leaving about a foot of space between them. She wondered what to say next, and then remembered the coffees. She reached over and grabbed Steve's, feeling fairly certain that he wouldn't mind. She offered it to Bucky. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” 

He looked at the coffee, then up at her face. She smiled encouragingly, and he reached up with his right hand, taking it. He sniffed at the lid, and she said, “It's mint mocha. It'll taste like coffee, peppermint, and chocolate, and be pretty sweet. If you don't like it, that's okay. It won't hurt my feelings.”

He tasted it, and she watched his expression go blank in surprise. “It's good?” she asked when he took another sip. He nodded, and she said, “I'm glad you like it.”

They sat there for a few minutes, sipping their coffees, and she didn't speak, instead waiting to see what he would do. He occasionally reached down to scratch the dog's head with his left hand - she noticed that it was covered with a glove - and he occasionally glanced in her direction out of the corner of his eye. Several times he took a deep breath, as if he was going to speak, but he didn't. Until he did.

“Can you help me?” he said softly.

“Yes,” she told him, her voice gentle but firm. “I can absolutely help you.”

“There's a man in a blue suit,” he said.

She nodded. “His name is Steve.”

He said, “I knew him.”

“Yes, you did,” she said. She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you want me to tell you about him?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Okay.”

They sat for a few more minutes in silence, but it was broken by her phone ringing. He started slightly, but she just reached into her pocket and pulled out her StarkPhone. “Don't panic,” she told him, reaching out to touch his shoulder gently. “But if I don't answer this, they'll come looking for me. Just stay here, okay?”

He nodded, and she answered the phone. “Lewis.”

“Darcy, where are you?” Steve's voice came out of the phone, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Bucky startle a little bit at the sound. “It's been almost an hour!”

“I'm fine, Steve,” she said. “I just ran into a friend and I've been sitting here right by the door having a very nice chat. I'll be up in a few minutes; I'm just giving him time.”

“Are you sure you're okay?” Steve asked. “You sound strange.”

She sighed. “Everything is chocolate-chip cookies, Mr. Rogers,” she said firmly. It was a simple code they'd thought of months ago, that translated to  _ I am not under duress and everything is fine. _ “I will be up in a few minutes, and I will be bringing my friend with me. Okay?”

Steve was stone silent for a moment. “Darcy,” he said, his voice low, “JARVIS just pulled up the security camera outside the door. Are you sitting with who I think you're sitting with?”

“If you come out that door, I swear to God,” she told him. “You stay where you are and you let me handle me. Do you understand?”

He let out a slow, shaky breath. “Darce,” he whispered.

“I know,” she murmured. “I know, babe. Just give me time, okay? Stay at your post.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice thick.

She hung up, slipping the phone back into her pocket and giving Bucky a sideways look and a grin. “He's so overprotective.”

Bucky nodded. “He's right. It's not safe to be out alone.”

“But I'm not alone,” she said. “I'm with you.” She smiled at him.

He stared at her for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, he smiled back. Based on that, she took a risk. “Will you come inside?” she said. “Bring that shield home where it belongs, and maybe talk to Steve?”

He stared down at his feet for a moment, his left hand scratching at the dog's head. She added, “Your dog can come, too.”

He looked up at her. He struggled for a moment before saying, “Will you stay with me?”

“Absolutely,” she promised. “I'll even hold your hand if you want me to.”

He smiled slightly. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She stood, and so did he. She cast a quick glance in the direction of the security camera, knowing full well that Steve was watching. Then she went down the steps into the door alcove. Bucky followed her, the dog right at his heels. She punched in the code, scanned her eye, and the door hissed open, revealing the interior of an elevator. She gestured for him to go first. He went, the dog trotting along, and she stepped in beside him, standing on his right. The door slid shut and she said, “JARVIS, floor eighty-seven please.”

The elevator began to rise, and as it did so, she felt Bucky's warm fingers tangle with hers. She smiled.


	6. Chapter 6

Her hand was warm and, just like she promised, she let him hold it as the elevator rose. The dog seemed unconcerned, but there was tension and fear roiling in his gut as they went higher and higher. The man in the blue suit was in this building. He would probably be there when the elevator door opened. He might say that name

_ (bucky) _

again, the one that held so much hope and so much longing. He swallowed hard, and the woman glanced at him. “It's going to be okay,” she said, her voice calm and even. He liked her voice. It had a very nice sound.

She gave his fingers a quick squeeze as the elevator slowed to a stop. There was a soft ding, and then the doors slid open. The dog trotted out immediately, pausing a few feet away to turn and look at him, as if asking,  _ are you coming? _ But he felt frozen in place, his eyes taking in the room, memorizing the details out of habit. Before him stretched a huge sitting area, scattered with comfortable chairs and couches. The wall to the left was all glass, and a door opened up onto a massive platform that looked like part patio and possibly part landing pad. To the right, there was a long table and, past that, a counter set with several stools. On the other side of the counter was a brightly lit kitchen, and standing in the kitchen was the man in the blue suit.

Today, the man was wearing a white tee shirt with an unbuttoned red button-up over it. His blue jeans looked comfortable and were splattered with paint. His feet were bare, his toes curling against the tile floor. His hands were thrust into his pockets as if he didn't know what to do with them and was afraid of making the wrong move.

The woman said, “Hey, Steve,” in that same calm tone. “I've brought a friend home. Come and say hello.”

The man came forward, moving toward the middle of the room, taking care not to make sudden or threatening movements. “Hey,” he said, and his voice was a balm. “I'm glad you came.”

***

Darcy nudged Bucky gently forward out of the elevator. The dog came back to them, nudging at Bucky's knee with its nose, and Bucky absently patted its head with his left hand. Steve fidgeted nervously, obviously wanting to do a thousand things and afraid to choose the wrong one. Afraid of triggering an attack, afraid of triggering flight. Afraid that at any moment he might wake up to find this all a figment of his imagination. 

Darcy cleared her throat. “Are you hungry?” she asked. After a moment, Bucky nodded. She said, “How about if I fix you something to eat? Would you like that?” He nodded again, and she started to move toward the kitchen, but he didn't let go of her hand. She turned, her eyebrows raised, and it only took a second for her to take in the expression of utter terror on his face. She moved back to his side. “Hey,” she said softly, laying her other hand on his right shoulder. “It's okay. Nobody here is going to hurt you. I promise. You're safe here.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment he looked like he wanted to cry. She had to restrain herself from hugging him. She didn't know how he would react, and also he was a little bit gross from sleeping in alleys. She gave him a smile. “What if you come and sit down, right over here? You'll be able to see me in the kitchen, and you and Steve can talk. Or Steve can talk and you can stare at him. Okay?”

He looked at her, looked at the seat she was indicating, took a deep breath, and nodded. Darcy made a shooing gesture at Steve and he backed away quickly, leaving the path open wide. Then she guided Bucky to the seat, giving him a gentle push on his right shoulder. He dropped into the chair, and the dog came and sprawled on the floor beside his feet. Darcy squeezed his shoulder. “I'll be right there in the kitchen, okay?”

Bucky nodded, watching her as she gave Steve a significant look and then went into the other space to make food. Steve shuffled nervously for a half-minute more before finally dropping down into a seat opposite Bucky. The two men stared at one another for a long time. There were so many things that Steve wanted to say, but he had no idea where or even how to begin.

***

The woman went into the kitchen to cook. The man finally sat down in a chair across from him, but didn't speak. His face was desperate. 

He shifted slightly in his seat, and felt the weight of the shield against his hip. In a flash, two things occurred to him. The first was that this man wanted to speak but was afraid of getting it wrong - which meant that if he wanted help,  _ he _ was going to have to find some way of asking for it. The second was that he had a way to start the conversation. He took his backpack off, putting it in the floor between his feet, and then shrugged out of his jacket. Then he pulled the strap of the messenger bag over his head. He held the bag in both his hands for a long moment, staring at the man who was staring at him. Then he held it out in front of him.

The man blinked. “Is that... for me?” he asked, tentative and almost shy.

He nodded, pushing it out toward the man again.

The man took the bag, flipped it open, reached inside, pulled out the shield. “Oh,” he said softly. He ran his hands across it, his fingers running over the scars from their last fight on the carrier. And then he said, “Thank you.” The man placed the shield in the floor, letting it lean against the leg of his chair, and offered the bag back. 

He took the bag, rolling it up and tucking it into his backpack. Then he looked down at his hands, not sure what else to do. He wanted to speak, wanted desperately to speak, but his words were all jumbled up in his head and he couldn't make them calm down and form sentences. He picked at one of his fingernails.

The man took a deep breath and spoke. “I want to help you,” he said, his voice trembling. “But I don't know what you need.”

He didn't  _ need _ . He wasn't allowed to  _ need _ . He was a tool. He was allowed to have mission requirements - guns, knives, armor, food, cash - but  _ needs _ were outside of his experience.  _ Wants _ and  _ likes _ were not things that he understood, were not things he was permitted to have.

Only he did. He had  _ needed  _ a bag,  _ wanted _ a sandwich,  _ liked _ a shower. He had made decisions. He had  _ decided _ not to kill the doctor who set his arm,  _ decided _ to take a shower,  _ decided _ to go into the museum,  _ decided _ to save the shield,  _ decided _ to come to New York.  _ Decided _ to speak to the woman.

He would not delude himself and claim not to be afraid. He was terrified. But the woman had been kind to him, and she had promised that no one here would hurt him. And the man... the man was good. The man, surely this man, who wore the suit and carried the shield and wanted to stop people from dying, this man would not hurt him. This man had fought to disable, not to kill; this man had saved him from certain death when he had been trapped. This man would never lock him into the chair, would never use the mind-wiper, would never put him away in the cold.

He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, fought with his words. “I knew you,” he said.

***

The expression on Bucky's face was heartbreaking. Whatever he was thinking about was absolutely terrifying to him, and Steve wanted nothing more than to take his friend - his brother - in his arms and hold him close, the same as Bucky had for him when they had been small. He wanted to make the fear and the pain go away, to make Bucky whole again. But there was nothing he could do, so he dug his fingers into his knees and waited while Bucky struggled.

And then Bucky said the three sweetest words Steve thought he'd ever heard. “I knew you.”

Steve nodded. “Yes,” he said simply. “You knew me. Me and you, we've known each other our whole lives.”

Bucky shook his head. “How?”

Darcy gave him a sharp look from under the kitchen counter, where she appeared to be throwing together something involving wieners and sauerkraut. His lips twitched at that; trust Darcy to remember him telling her what the nuns always used to feed them for dinner. But her expression was clearly a warning:  _ don't push too hard _ . Bucky's mind was clearly a delicate thing.

He took a deep breath. “Me and you, we grew up in Brooklyn,” he said. “My dad died in World War I and my ma was a nurse in a TB ward. She caught it when I was about eight or so, and she died. And I came to the orphanage, and that's where I met you. I'd been there a coupla days and my face got in the way of somebody's fist, and you stepped in to protect me, because I was little and skinny and I woulda ended up a smear on the pavement.”

Bucky stared at him. He closed his eyes for a moment, an odd expression crossing his face, and he said, “I... thought you were smaller?”

Steve couldn't help the smile that bloomed. “Yeah,” he said. “That's what you said to me the first time I saw you again, after it happened.”

Bucky shook his head, not opening his eyes. “But I don't remember,” he said, his right hand creeping up to tug at his hair. “I don't remember what happened.”

“I, uh.” Steve paused, wondering how much to say. “I used to be little. Skinny and short and sickly. But I... I wanted to join the Army. Real bad. Because my dad was in the Army, and you were in the Army, and I wanted to be like... well, both of you. So I volunteered for this experiment, and they... they made me bigger.”

Bucky looked up at him then, his eyes haunted. “Did it hurt?”

“Yeah,” Steve admitted. 

His left hand made its way into his hair, tugging. “Did they make you forget?”

Steve shook his head. “No. They didn't make me forget anything.”

***

He bent forward, pulling hard at his hair. He wanted to remember. He wanted to remember  _ so badly _ but there were huge blank spaces where everything should be. If he reached, he could almost feel the shapes of things, but the things themselves were gone, like outlines in dust after objects were removed. Reaching for the memories and finding only the shapes was terrible and terrifying, and he pulled harder, trying to ground himself, wanting it to stop.

He heard the man speak, but couldn't make out the words or form a reply. And then suddenly there were hands on his: small and gentle hands, with delicate fingers that wound between his own, untangling his hair from his grip and smoothing it down, soothing touches against his scalp to ease the self-inflicted pain. And the woman's voice was whispering in his ear. “Don't,” she said softly. “Don't do that. You don't have to do that. You'll hurt yourself.”

He opened his eyes, staring at her. She was kneeling beside his chair, holding both of his hands in hers, her thumbs running across the backs of his fingers. Her expression was calm, sympathetic without being pitying. Behind her, the man looked worried and confused. He looked down at their hands, at the way she was holding his left hand just the same as she was holding his right. He looked back up at her. “Is it awful?”

She tilted her head just a bit. “Is what awful?”

He twitched his left arm a little bit in reply, and she glanced down at it before shaking her head. “You mean your arm? No. It's your arm. Why would it be awful?”

“It isn't mine,” he said. “They put it there.”

“Well, it's yours now,” she replied. “And while I'm pretty sure the circumstances surrounding it are pretty terrible, the arm itself is just an arm. Granted, it's a super-high-tech arm and when Tony Stark sees it he's going to have conniptions and probably try to poke it with a stick, but it's still just an arm.” As if to prove it, she ran her hand up to his elbow and back down again. Then she took his hand, unfolding the clenched fist and running her fingertips across the palm, over the wrist. “See?” she said. “Just a hand. Fingers. Thumb. Wrist, forearm, elbow. Just an arm.” She reached up and rubbed gently at his head. “But I'm betting it's really strong, isn't it?” He nodded, and she said, “So if you pull on your hair with it, you're going to hurt yourself. And I don't want you to hurt yourself. Neither does Steve. Okay?”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay.”

“Come and eat,” she said. “The food is ready.” She tugged gently at his metal hand and he stood, following her obediently into the kitchen. The dog trotted along behind. The woman put two wide plates on the counter and then put a plastic bowl in the floor with food for the dog. He watched the man seat himself on one of the stools and pick up a spoon, so he copied the movement, seating himself and picking up his own spoon.

He looked down into the bowl. Then he looked up at the woman. “What is it?” he asked.

She smiled. “Hot dogs and sauerkraut,” she said. “Nothing fancy, but I thought you might find it familiar.” She went to the sink and began washing up. He stared into the bowl for a long time before taking the first bite.

It wasn't familiar. He'd never had it before in his life. But at the same time, it was as though one of those empty spaces in his mind suddenly had the ghost of a shape in it. The hot dogs were firm and sort of tasteless, but the sauerkraut was sharp and salt-tangy and vinegary and amazing. 

“Oh yeah, we used to eat this all the time when we were kids.”

It took him a moment to realize that he was the one who had said that. The spoon fell from his hand into the bowl and he cringed. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay.” This time it wasn't the woman coming to calm him; it was the man. His touch was warm and soothing, but terrifying at the same time. 

He looked up, desperate. “Please, I'm sorry, I don't want the machine, I don't want to go back in the cold again.”

***

Steve couldn't help it. He pulled Bucky to him, wrapping his arms around his friend. “Nobody is ever gonna make you go into the cold again, I swear it,” he said softly. “I don't care if I have to burn the whole world down, Bucky, they're never gonna touch you again.”

Darcy laid a hand on his back, feeling him tremble, and rubbed it soothingly. “It's okay,” she murmured, adding her reassurances to Steve's. “It's all right. We  _ want _ you to remember. Remembering is a  _ good _ thing.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head hard and pushing at Steve. “No, if they find out I remember they put me in the chair.  _ Wipe him and start over. _ But I can't help it, I don't want it, I don't want to do it, please don't make me do it.”

Steve cupped Bucky's cheeks in his hands, forcing eye contact. “Nobody is going to make you do  _ anything _ you don't want to do,” he said, and the touch combined with the look and his Captain America voice was enough to get Bucky's attention, to knock him out of the spiral of panic. “I need you to say this with me, Buck, so you understand. I need you to understand this. Nobody here is going to hurt you. Nobody here is going to make you do anything you don't want to do. Okay?”

Bucky was still for a moment, trembling, before he managed to nod. Steve said, “I need you to say it for me, so I know you understand. Nobody here is going to hurt you.”

He struggled with it for a moment, but finally managed. “N-Nobody here is going to hurt me.”

“Good. Now. Nobody here is going to make you do anything you don't want to do.”

He swallowed hard. His voice this time was a bare whisper. “Nobody is going to make me do anything I don't want to do.”

“That's right.” Steve nodded. “No more machines. No more cold. I promise.”

“No more machines. No more cold. You promise.”

“That's good,” Steve said, one hand stroking Bucky's hair back from his face. “That's real good, Buck.” He squeezed Bucky's shoulders gently. “Think you can eat some more?”

Bucky looked at the bowl of food. He looked at Darcy. Then he looked at Steve. His eyes shone. He nodded. Steve released him and Darcy guided him back into his seat, bringing him a glass of water. 

They finished their food in silence. Darcy had the thought - private and unshared - that Bucky ate like a prisoner, hunched over his bowl as if afraid that someone would take it from him. She couldn't find it amusing in the least, because what it told her about him was that he had been a prisoner, and he had reason to fear the loss of his food. Just the thought of the terror on his face when he begged them not to torture him for remembering what he used to eat as a kid made her sick to her stomach. What had he been through? What horrors had he suffered that he didn't even remember, knowing only that any slip meant the machine and then the cold?

What machine, and what cold?

Steve had a folder, all in Russian, that Natasha gave him; she hadn't wanted to pry, but now she wondered what was in it. She wondered if Steve had even read it all the way through. This was definitely going to have to be priority one if they were going to save Bucky Barnes from himself.

Bucky finished eating, setting his spoon down carefully. Darcy took the bowl, rinsed it, put it in the dishwasher. Then she said, “I don't mean to be rude, but do you know how long it's been since you had a shower?”

“Today is the sixth day,” Bucky replied immediately. 

“Well, I think that's more than long enough, don't you?” she asked, giving him a smile. 

He said, “I couldn't. I had to get to New York. And then I had to wait.”

“Wait for what?” Steve asked, moving into the kitchen to wash up his own dish.

“By the door. People come in and out through the door. I saw the man with the wings, and the red-haired woman. And I saw you. But then I didn't see you and I...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“You didn't know if you could talk to them?” Darcy guessed.

He nodded. “I hurt them,” he said, his voice small and anguished. “I didn't want to. He said it was the mission. A tipping point between order and chaos. HYDRA's going to give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Steve shuddered hard, hearing those words coming out of Bucky's mouth. “HYDRA is a lie,” he said fiercely, “and everything they told you was a lie.”

Darcy raised a hand. “Steve,” she said softly, “I think he knows that. Or else he wouldn't be here. Isn't that right?”

Bucky nodded, desperate again, his eyes pleading with her to understand. “I didn't want to,” he said again.

“I know,” she assured him. She reached up and touched his cheek with her hand. “It's okay. Nobody is going to be angry with you. We know they made you do it, and you didn't want to. It's not your fault, okay?”

He nodded, and his head dropped down again, his hair curtaining his face. Darcy said, “Let's get you into the shower, how does that sound?”

He nodded again. And then he said, “That sounds good.”

***

This shower was as good as the last one. Perhaps even better. They brought him to the man's apartment - his home, the home of the man in the blue suit - and he looked around with interest as he followed the man, with his dog beside him and the woman behind them. There was an easel by the window, surrounded by well-used art supplies, and he wondered what was on the canvas. It was angled away from the door, so he couldn't see. Maybe they would let him look at it later.

The man led him into a bathroom with a huge, glassed-in shower stall. He dug into a cabinet and pulled out a towel, a wash cloth, and a plastic-wrapped toothbrush. “Everything you'll need is already in there,” he said. “I'll get you some clean clothes. If you want a shave, we can do that after; all I have is a straight razor.”

He nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly. 

The man nodded. “Just call out if you need anything,” he said, then stepped out of the bathroom and pulled the door shut.

The dog lay down on the floor and relaxed with a soft whuff. He stood there for a long time, staring around himself. He was standing in a bathroom that belonged to the man in the blue suit. The man in the blue suit had promised no more machine, no more cold. Had promised to protect him. Had spoken kind words to him. Had given him food, let him have a shower. The woman had promised that no one would be angry, that no one would hurt him, that the people here would help him.

He put everything down. He stripped out of his clothing, carefully piling every piece of weaponry that had been secreted on his body in the sink. He started the water in the shower, adjusted the temperature, stepped under the spray. 

There were two bottles of shampoo. One of them smelled like spice and the other like strawberries. He chose the strawberries. There were two soaps; one of them smelled of peach and the other of sandalwood. He chose the sandalwood. He watched as the accumulated dirt and filth of his travels rinsed off his body and down the drain. He crouched to rinse out the arm. He shut the water off, dried himself, and wrapped the towel around his waist.

He stepped out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror. He ran a hand over his face. He looked down at the dog, who was now asleep on the floor. Near its head was a pile of clean clothing: a plain black tee shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and an unopened package of boxer briefs. Everything was slightly too big for him, but he put it on anyway. It felt nice, all of it. The sweatpants were warm, and the tee shirt was soft from multiple washings. 

He realized, quite suddenly, that he was wearing clothing that belonged to the man in the blue suit. In his home, in his bathroom, wearing his clothing. He shook his head, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. He spread his dirty shirt out on the countertop and piled all the weapons into it. Then he folded it up like a bag, tying the corners together. He opened the door.

The man in the blue suit was sitting on the side of the bed. He looked up. He looked... worried.

He held out the makeshift bundle. “Here,” he said.

The man came and took the bundle, peering inside. He blinked. “Is this...?”

“Everything I had,” he said. “You promised.”

“I did promise,” the man said. “You don't need these here, because no one here will hurt you.”

He nodded. “I believe you,” he said. “Steve.”


	7. Chapter 7

Steve left the bundle of weapons on the floor beside the bed for now. Instead of dwelling on it - on the probable level of desperation that it must have taken for Bucky to place his trust in Steve and part with his weapons in this unfamiliar place - he brought Bucky into the living room of his apartment, where Darcy was sitting on the stool in front of the easel. She smiled as they entered the room. “Hey, there,” she said. “Feeling better?”

Bucky nodded, clasping his hands in front of his body as if he wasn't sure what to do with himself. Darcy said, “I was thinking it might be a good idea to introduce everyone else, one or two people at a time. To keep from getting overwhelmed with a thousand new people all at once.”

Steve considered, then nodded. “That sounds like a good idea. Where should we start?”

“I was thinking Thor and Jane.”

Steve nodded. “That works.”

“JARVIS,” Darcy said, “could I have an intercom to Jane's lab?”

“One moment,” JARVIS replied.

Bucky startled hard, nearly falling into the floor as he tried to scramble away from the unexpected voice. Steve caught him, gently setting him back on his feet. “It's okay, Bucky,” he said. “It's just JARVIS.”

“Who? Where?” Bucky's eyes were huge, darting all around the room as he searched for the speaker.

“JARVIS is an AI - artificial intelligence. He's part of the building. You won't see him, but he's always around to help with things. JARVIS, before you get that intercom, could you introduce yourself to Bucky? I completely forgot, and I apologize.”

“No need to apologize, Captain,” JARVIS replied. “Sergeant Barnes, I am JARVIS. As the Captain told you, I am an artificial intelligence designed and implemented by Tony Stark. My primary function is that of a butler or majordomo, but I also provide assistance to Mr. Stark in other areas as well. I also maintain and oversee the internal computer systems, as well as some of the physical security systems within the tower. I have no physical form, but as long as you are within the tower building, I am accessible to you and can provide assistance to you within certain specified parameters.”

Bucky calmed himself - not that it was hard, since JARVIS's voice seemed designed for calm. He nodded as JARVIS finished his self-explanation. “Okay,” he said softly. “So... you watch?”

“I do,” JARVIS replied. “The internal security cameras all feed into my databanks, and I monitor and store that data.”

“Neural processing?”

“Entirely digital,” JARVIS replied. “I have no physical format. I exist as code.”

“High-tech,” Bucky said, clearly impressed. “Noncorporeal sapience without a physical anchor.”

“You are correct, Sergeant,” JARVIS replied.

Bucky's brow creased. “Why do you call me that?”

There was a moment's pause before JARVIS answered. “Data indicates that your identity matches that of Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, former comrade of Captain Steven Grant Rogers, also known as Captain America. Extrapolation indicates that the correct form of address would be Sergeant, as military ranks are considered higher honorifics than the simple masculine form of address 'Mister.' Is this incorrect?”

There was a long pause while Steve and Darcy exchanged glances, then looked over at Bucky. He seemed to be struggling. “Just a moment, please, JARVIS,” Darcy said. She crossed the room, holding out her hands. Bucky took them, glancing into her eyes and then away again.

“Does it bother you, to be called Sergeant?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “Nobody calls me that.”

“What do they call you?” she asked.

He closed his eyes. Shook his head. “Oh,” she said softly. “They don't call you anything.”

“No,” he managed.

She drew him to sit down on the sofa, curling up beside him and gesturing Steve to sit on his other side. “Okay. I can understand how it would be crazy confusing, then. Nobody's called you by a name for a really long time, and now suddenly everyone wants to call you something. It's weird, huh?”

He nodded.

Darcy bit her lip. “Well,” she said, “if it bothers you to be called Sergeant, then we can call you something else. Your name is James, and your nickname is Bucky. That's what Steve's always called you. Do you have a preference?”

He blinked at her for a moment, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his mind. Finally he said, “No.”

“Okay. Does it  _ bother _ you if we call you Bucky? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

He shook his head. “No.”

“All right. Then we'll continue to call you Bucky, and you let us know if you want that to change, okay?” When he nodded, she continued, “Now, since JARVIS is programmed to address people in a more formal way, he'll also need to know what you prefer. Your last name is Barnes, but if you're uncomfortable being called Sergeant, I'm sure he can just call you Mr. Barnes. Will that be okay with you?”

“Actually,” JARVIS interjected gently, “I am fully capable of addressing any individual in whatever way they prefer. The more formal address is my default setting, but if someone prefers a different mode, that is available.”

“Well, then,” Darcy said. “How about George of the Jungle? We can have him call you that,” Darcy offered.

Bucky's lips twitched hard, and Darcy beamed at the sight. So did Steve. Bucky just shook his head. “Bucky,” he said. His voice was firm this time.

Darcy nodded. “So you want JARVIS to just call you Bucky?” When he nodded, she said, “Did you get that, JARVIS?”

“Indeed, Miss Lewis,” JARVIS replied. “Bucky, your preference has been noted and will be utilized until such time as you choose to log a change.”

Bucky nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

“You're very welcome, sir,” JARVIS assured him. “Miss Lewis, would you like that intercom connection to the lab now?”

“Yes, please.”

***

Thor and Jane were sitting by the window, Jane in Thor's lap with her head on his shoulder, staring out at the late afternoon sky. “I did some work for SHIELD, you know,” Jane said. “After you left. I was working for them when the Chitauri attacked New York.”

“The Son of Coul had informed me that you were moved to safety before the invasion occurred,” Thor rumbled. “I could not have done what I needed to do, if it were otherwise. I would have been too worried about you.”

Jane smiled slightly. “I was terrified,” she admitted. “Darcy was, too, but she'll never admit it.”

Thor gave a soft chuckle. “Certainly not.”

Jane drew a breath to say something else, but they were interrupted by the soft chime that was JARVIS's version of a polite throat-clearing. “Dr. Foster, Miss Lewis wishes to speak with you.”

“Oh, sure, JARVIS, thank you,” Jane said, sitting up. “What's up, Darcy?”

“I'd like you and Thor to come by Steve's apartment,” Darcy said with no preamble. “We have a guest, and we need to introduce him to everyone, but we were thinking one at a time in a quiet environment might be a better idea than all at once in a big, loud, open setting.”

Jane gasped softly. “Darcy,” she said. “Is it...?”

“Yes,” Darcy said simply. “Will you come?”

“We're on our way,” Jane said, jumping to her feet. The connection closed, and Thor raised an eyebrow in question. Jane explained, “It's Bucky. Steve's friend? The one he was telling us about the other night at dinner.”

Thor blinked. “He has retrieved his shield-brother already? How? I thought that he was believed to be hundreds of miles away in another city.”

“I have no idea,” Jane confessed. “You actually know as much about this as I do right now.”

“Then by all means,” Thor said, standing. “Let us go and learn more.”

They made their way upstairs, and Jane tapped on Steve's door. Darcy opened it, stepped aside, let them enter. There was an unfamiliar man sitting on Steve's couch, but as Darcy completed the introductions, Jane could see the Bucky she was familiar with - the one from history books and Steve's memories - underneath the just-showered hobo who was sitting there in sweatpants and a tee shirt.

Jane wasn't sure what to say, so she kept her mouth shut. Thor was under no such compunctions; he strode forward casually and offered his hand. Bucky reached back, seemingly out of reflex, and Thor clasped his arm the way he did with the Warriors Three. Bucky was clearly surprised by this, but Thor either didn't notice or ignored that fact. Instead, he pulled one of the armchairs nearer to the couch and took a seat, a broad smile on his face. “We have heard many tales of the Captain's lost shield-brother,” he said, and Jane was surprised to note that his tone was the same gentle one that he had used on Darcy when she was reverted to a child. “We were all overjoyed to learn that you lived still.”

Bucky stared at him. “Why?” he managed.

“Because the Captain is our shield-brother as well,” he explained. “And the bonds forged in that manner may sometimes be closer even than kin. To know that my brother's brother lives is as well to me as to know the same about my own.” A pained expression crossed his face briefly, and Jane couldn't help the pang of sympathy she felt for him. Despite everything that happened, Loki was Thor's brother, and that was not a bond easily broken, regardless of what Loki did.

Darcy moved into the kitchen, tossing Jane a significant look, and Jane followed. Thor was telling Bucky some story, possibly about the Chitauri invasion, and Steve was sitting beside Bucky, watching. Darcy went to the pantry and pulled out a box of cookies. Jane followed her, hoisting herself up onto the kitchen counter. “How did this happen?” she asked, keeping her voice just above a whisper.

Darcy ran a hand through her hair and said, “I went out for coffee a little after one. Just to get out, because it looked like such a pretty day and I hate being cooped up inside all day. And I was coming back from the coffee shop and he was just... there. Sitting on the big planter by the door. He touched my arm and I stopped and asked if he needed help, and he had Steve's shield in his bag. He showed it to me, and I realized who he was, and I damn near peed my pants. But I just... I just talked to him, and he seems so...” She paused, shaking her head. “He's hurting. I don't know what they did to him, but he's hurting bad.”

“Are you sure?” Jane asked. “I mean, it's great if he's really  _ back _ and all, but what if it's some kind of a trap? Like the Trojan horse?”

Darcy nodded. “I've thought of that. So has Steve. But look.” She pulled her phone out of her pocket, unwound the headphones, and gave them to Jane. “JARVIS,” she muttered, knowing the super-sensitive mics would pick up her voice anyway, “would you send security footage to my phone from when Bucky arrived? Audio and visual, from the time we came in the elevator until we came to Steve's apartment.”

JARVIS chirped softly in reply, and the video popped up on the phone. Jane popped the buds into her ears and watched Bucky's struggle in the living room and his breakdown and panic over the food. When the video ended, she looked up at Darcy. “Okay,” she said, “he's messed up. Bad.”

“That's what I said,” Darcy replied, her lips twisting. “But he came to us. That's gotta mean something, right?”

“Maybe, but who knows? I just hope this doesn't come back to bite us in the ass.”

“From your lips to God's ears,” Darcy said sincerely.

***

The big blond man and his tiny brown-haired woman - Thor and Jane, he reminded himself - stayed for about an hour. The wo- _ Darcy _ spent most of that hour in the kitchen with Jane, talking, probably about him. Thor spent most of that hour regaling him with stories of aliens coming out of the sky over New York, which he would probably not have believed except that he had a metal arm and Steve used to be skinny until he volunteered for a science experiment and also, oh yeah, somehow it was 2014 and he had a life's memory that consisted of precisely six days and some echoes that rattled around in the deep, dark places behind his eyes.

When Thor and Jane left, he felt unaccountably exhausted, and he wondered if maybe there was something wrong with him. But Darcy flopped into the chair Thor had just vacated and said, “I love the guy, but  _ man _ does he make me tired.”

Steve chuckled, leaning back on the sofa. “Between him and Tony, I'm surprised we don't spend all our time lying on the floor wondering what just happened.”

“Sometimes when they're down in the lab together, that's exactly what I do,” Darcy confessed. Steve laughed.

He sat there, listening to the two of them banter, and he thought about Thor and about Jane, and he scratched his dog's head. Thor had wanted to know the dog's name - or, more specifically, had asked how he should address such a noble beast - and he had not had an answer, so he just shrugged. “No matter!” Thor had boomed. “Such things can take time.” 

He stared down at his dog. His dog needed a name. Pets got names; he knew that. Names like Rex and Rover. People got names like Steve and Darcy. His dog should have a name.

He thought about that as he listened to Steve and Darcy wonder whether they should call Natasha down next or Sam. The consensus seemed to be that Natasha would come with Clint, while Sam might bring Tony because they had been spending a lot of time together testing the new wingsuit, and for whatever reason, Tony should not come yet. He suspected it was to do with what Darcy had said earlier, about Tony poking his arm with a stick.

He was just as happy not to have his arm poked, with a stick or anything else for that matter. If he could rip the damn thing off and throw it away, he would. But then he would have no arm at all, only whatever stump remained behind, and the scars were already bad enough.

He paused, examining that thought. His hand came up automatically to rub at the side of his chest, where he could just feel the roughness of the scars under his shirt. He'd never thought about them before. He'd never thought about taking his arm off before, either. He knew it could come off; it had been replaced once, in 1962, when it had gotten mangled in a piece of machinery. One of the priests at the orphanage had lost an arm in a similar way, working in a meatpacking plant before the Great War.

He raised his head and looked at Steve. “Father Flanigan,” he said.

***

Steve, who had been in the middle of saying something utterly ridiculous, stopped cold and stared at Bucky. “What about Father Flanigan?” he asked.

“He lost his arm before the War,” Bucky said.

“Yes, he did,” Steve replied, sitting forward on the couch. “Working in a meatpacking plant.” He smiled slightly. “Do you remember how he used to tell us stories about Ireland?”

Bucky shook his head. “I remembered his arm,” he said. “I was thinking about my arm and I remembered his.” He looked down at his hand. “I remember... it was 1962 and … and I don't remember the mission. I don't  _ remember. _ ” He shook his head. “But I remember that... there was a big... thing.” He held up his hands to indicate the size of whatever the thing was. “And I got my hand caught in it. Tore it all to hell. They had to change it out.”

Darcy winced. “Did it hurt?”

Bucky shook his head. “No, I... I don't think so. It doesn't really feel, you know. Well. Not from here down.” He pointed at a spot just below his shoulder. “I think that's where the stump is.”

It was Steve's turn to wince, but he rallied. “Do you remember anything else?”

Bucky considered it, then shrugged. “No. I don't think so.”

“That's good, though,” Darcy said. “It's good that you remembered that. Do you know what that means?”

Both men shook their heads at her, and she rolled her eyes. “It  _ means _ , you goons, that the memories are still there. They aren't gone, just... put away, maybe. They can be retrieved.”

“Oh,” Steve said, his eyes widening just a bit.

Bucky looked down at the dog. “What about Max?”

Both Steve and Darcy startled at that. “What  _ about _ Max?” Steve said.

“For the dog,” Bucky said. “It needs a name. People get names. Pets get names.”

“I think Max is a great name,” Darcy said. “What do you think, Max?”

Thus addressed, and also granted scratches, Max wagged his tail. Darcy grinned. “I think he likes it.”

“Good,” Bucky said. “It's good when they like their name.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Steve said, tentatively, “Do... you like your name?”

“Tools don't have names.” The words fell from Bucky's lips like lead weights. “Tools have labels. Wrench, hammer, knife, gun, we have a mission for you.”

“You're not a tool, though,” Darcy said gently. “I know they treated you like one for a long time, but that's over now. You're not a tool. You're a person, and you have a name.”

Bucky just shook his head. “Not yet,” he said. 


	8. Chapter 8

A knock on the door startled the three of them out of the slightly uncomfortable silence that had fallen after Bucky's denial of his own humanity. Steve and Darcy exchanged a glance, and then Darcy stood, crossing the room and opening the door.

Tony stood there, hands in his pockets, his face uncharacteristically still. “I understand we have a guest,” he said simply.

Darcy grimaced. “JARVIS told you,” she said, and he nodded. Of course JARVIS had told him, he didn't say. She shrugged, opening the door wider. It was Tony's tower, after all. “We were actually going to call you,” she continued. “We thought it would be better if we introduced people in small batches.”

“Yeah, big groups are not gonna be a thing for awhile,” Tony agreed, nodding. “So introduce me.”

Darcy turned, leading Tony farther into the living room. “Bucky,” she said, “this is Tony Stark. Tony, this is Bucky and Max.”

Max wagged his tail. Bucky looked up at Tony, blinked, and canted his head. “I...” He shook his head, turning to look at Steve in confusion. “Do I know him?”

Steve shook his head. “You knew his father, Howard,” he explained. “Howard ran the Strategic Scientific Reserve, which was the program that ran Project Rebirth.”

Bucky shook his head. “I don't remember that,” he said.

Steve shrugged. “Let me just put it this way: the apple didn't fall far from the tree.” He glanced up at Tony apologetically, knowing how Tony felt about his dad. “You really do look almost exactly like your old man,” he said.

“It's a thing,” Tony said shortly. He moved past Darcy and around the end of the couch and settled himself on the coffee table, studying Bucky. “You look like hell,” he said frankly.

Bucky shrugged, saying nothing. Tony studied him a little bit longer. “I need to ask you some questions,” he finally said. “And before Captain Uptight gets his panties all in a bunch, I want to make it clear that I'm not asking just to be an asshole. I'm asking because people _live_ in this tower. Because _Pepper_ lives in this tower. Because if our situations were reversed, and we were sitting upstairs in the penthouse with my friend, Steve would be asking the same questions because _Darcy_ lives in this tower. Do you understand?”

Bucky nodded, even though the question wasn't really directed at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Tony saw Steve exchange a glance with Darcy and also nod. “Say what you need to say,” Darcy said softly.

“I know who you were and I know what you've done,” Tony said. “Possibly better than you do. We've actually compiled a pretty complete dossier on your activities since the mid-fifties. There's still pretty serious money down on whether or not you were responsible for JFK, so let me know if that one comes to you.” He smirked slightly. “The important thing is, there's been a pattern to your targets. They tended to be lynchpin targets - the kind whose deaths cause domino effects that change patterns in the world at large. Political figures, especially behind-the-scenes ones. Power players. Interestingly enough, mostly people we'd consider bad guys.”

Steve made a thoughtful noise. Darcy moved to his side, resting her hand on his shoulder. Bucky waited.

Tony leaned forward, staring into Bucky's face. “What is your function?”

“Target elimination,” said the Winter Soldier.

“What is your mission?”

“There is no current mission,” said the Winter Soldier.

“Do you have a target?”

“There is no current target,” said the Winter Soldier.

“What was your last mission?”

“Two targets, level six. Rogers, Steven G. Romanoff, Natasha A. Confirmation within ten hours.” The Winter Soldier paused. Bucky shook his head. “No. That's not right. That was before.” He looked down, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Two targets, level six. Rogers, Steven G. Romanoff, Natasha A. But...”

“But what?” Tony asked, and his voice was more gentle than Steve would have ever thought possible.

The Winter Soldier looked up at Tony. “The same target. It was the same target on a different mission. But that isn't possible.”

“Why isn't it possible?”

“Because my function is target elimination.”

“Oh,” Darcy said softly. “I think I see the problem.” She gave Bucky an apologetic look. “What's your success rate?”

“One hundred percent,” the Winter Soldier replied.

“Except for me,” Steve said softly. “Me and Natasha.”

Tony pinned the Winter Soldier's eyes with his own. “What are the parameters of your last mission?”

“The targets intend to interfere with Project Insight,” the Winter Soldier replied. “Eliminate the targets. Rogers is primary; Romanoff is secondary. The Project must launch.”

“Are you aware of the current status of the Project?”

“The Project did not launch,” the Winter Soldier replied immediately. “The mission failed.”

“What are your orders now?”

There was a long pause before Bucky said softly, “I don't know.”

“Why don't you know?”

“Standard post-mission protocol. Return to base for repairs. Mission report. Fuel. Wipe. Capsule.” He stopped, wrapping his arms around himself, and he shuddered hard. “C-Cold,” he said. “I don't want to go back into the cold again.”

A moment later, Darcy's warm hands were laying on his shoulders. “Nobody's going to make you go back into the cold,” she murmured into his ear. “We promised. Remember? Remember what Steve said?”

Bucky swallowed hard. “No more machines,” he managed, his voice a bare whisper. “No more cold. You promise.”

“That's right,” Darcy said, stroking his hair back from his forehead. “No more machines. No more cold.”

Bucky took a deep breath, shuddering again. But he relaxed, squared his shoulders, and looked up at Tony again. “Following the failure of the mission, I did not report for post-mission briefing.”

Tony nodded. “Are you still under orders to eliminate the two targets?”

The Winter Soldier shook his head. “The mission failed.”

“Do you have any secondary targets or standing orders?”

He shook his head again. “I don't...” He paused, and for the first time in the conversation he seemed to struggle with his words. “There are no standing orders. There is no _standing_.”

Tony's brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“That's not my function. My function is target elimination.”

“And?”

“And that's it.”

“Well, what do you do when you're not eliminating targets?”

When he spoke again, the Soldier's tone was flat as he recited what was clearly a standard conversation. “Mission complete. Well done. Is there any damage? No, sir. Do you need fuel? No, sir. Sit down in the chair, we'll clean you up and put you away.”

Steve interrupted. “They kept him in cryo-stasis between missions,” he said softly.

Tony's mouth dropped open, and he stared from Steve to Bucky and back again in shock. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Steve stood, crossing the apartment into the little study, and came back a moment later with the folder Natasha had brought him. “Do you read Russian?”

Tony shook his head, flipping the folder open anyway.

“I don't either,” Steve admitted. “JARVIS has been helping me with the translations.”

Tony didn't need the text. The photograph clipped to the inside cover of the folder was enough for him. He stared in horror at Bucky's face inside the cryo capsule, eyes closed, features glazed with hoarfrost. He shut the folder again, feeling a little bit like he might throw up. “Jesus,” he said softly. He looked up at Bucky, and shivered slightly as Bucky's impassive gaze met his own. “Look, I'm sorry,” he said, his voice a little shaky. “I just need to know if you're going to kill us all in our beds or something.”

***

He didn't know what was in the folder that had upset Tony so, but he could guess. The front of the folder read “Case Number 17” in Russian, and someone had hand-written the words Codename: Winter Soldier on the folder's tab. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Winter Soldier was _his_ codename.

Then Tony looked up at him with genuine sympathy in his eyes and said, “I just need to know if you're going to kill us all in our beds or something.”

He shook his head. “I have no orders.”

“No urges to, I dunno, ice pick somebody in the ear?”

“I have no _orders_ ,” he repeated, stressing the last word. He needed them - not just Tony but also Steve and Darcy - to understand what he was trying to say, but formulating his thoughts was difficult. It was easy, under Tony's rapid-fire questioning, to turn off the parts of him that wanted to think and feel and fight and scream and to just answer the questions. It was simple.

_(mission report, now.)_

But trying to articulate the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions inside him, thoughts and emotions he couldn't even remember  _having_ before six days ago? Might as well ask him to jump out the window and fly under his own power. Still, he tried. “Asset function: target elimination. Mission: failed. Secondary orders: none. Secondary targets: none.”

Mercifully, Steve spoke. “I think what he's trying to say is that he only kills if he's ordered to kill,” he said. “Is that right, Bucky?”

“Affirmative,” he said. “I have _no orders_.”

Tony nodded. “All right,” he said. He put the folder down on the coffee table and said, “I'm sorry. If that was... whatever. But I had to know.” He looked up at Steve. “You know I did.”

“I know,” Steve answered. He sounded tired, but not angry. “I know, Tony. Somebody has to do the hard thing. And you're right; I couldn't have done it.”

Tony turned back to him. “How's the arm?”

He looked down at it, frowned, and ran a basic diagnostic. Gears whirred and clicked. “Functioning within ordinary parameters.”

Tony nodded. “Hold it straight out for me?”

He obeyed, wary, ready to snatch it back if it seemed that Tony was going to do anything untoward. But Tony merely said, “JARVIS, give that a once-over, would you? Full-spectrum. Send the specs down to the workshop.” 

“Certainly, sir,” the disembodied voice replied. 

Tony grinned. “I'll make you a better one,” he said. “How'd you like to have a laser sight?”

“Tony,” Darcy said gently. “Get out.”

He watched Tony go, mildly bemused, his arm still held out from his body. Steve said, “JARVIS, have you finished scanning?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS replied.

Steve said, “You can put your arm down, Bucky,” and watched with sad eyes as gears clicked and the arm dropped down.

Darcy leaned back against the door after she closed it. “One of these days, I'm going to strangle  _him_ while he sleeps,” she muttered. 

He put the words together in his mind. “He was right to ask,” he said. When both Steve and Darcy looked up at him in surprise, he shrugged. He didn't feel like explaining. They knew, anyway; he could see it on their faces. So he sat there, petting Max.

He waited while Steve walked over to the door and shared a warm hug with Darcy, resting his forehead on her shoulder for a minute. But then he lifted his head and said, “There's someone coming.”

They both turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I can hear it,” he said. “In the air.”

Steve's brow furrowed at him. “Do you mean HYDRA? Because - ”

He pointed. Both of their heads turned to see what he was pointing at. A moment later, the vent in the kitchen ceiling swung open, and the stockily-built blond man he'd seen before dropped down out of the vent. “Hey,” he said, flipping in midair and landing lightly on his feet. “Is this a bad time?”

***

Turned out, Bucky had meant it literally. Darcy sighed as Clint Barton tumbled out of the return-air vent. “Can you never travel like a normal person, ever?” she asked. “Does it always have to be the air vents? Because you know I'm going to start booby-trapping them.”

“You can take the boy outta the circus,” Clint replied, grinning. “Was that Stark I just heard you throwing out of here?”

“You know damn well it was,” Steve snapped. “How long have you been up there?”

Clint shrugged. “Not long.”

“Seventeen minutes,” Bucky said.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “How'd you know?”

“I could hear you,” Bucky said. “You smacked your elbow when you came around the last bend, and you breathe like a sniper.”

“I am a sniper,” Clint said. He crossed the room. “They call me Hawkeye.”

“Hawkeye,” Bucky recited, his eyes going curiously blank. “A.K.A. Clint Barton. SHIELD asset. Program candidate.”

All three of them recoiled at that. Clint stormed forward, his fists clenching. “What the fuck do you mean, program candidate?” he demanded.

Bucky cringed at his tone, scrambling backward, landing in the floor, and scooting back against the wall. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know. Please. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. It's okay.” Darcy was on her knees beside him immediately, gripping his face, forcing eye contact as Steve had done earlier in the kitchen. “Bucky. Look at me. Take a deep breath. Good. Now another. Good. Keep doing that. It's okay. He's not mad at you. Everything's okay.”

Bucky struggled to focus, and Darcy could see the panic clear in his eyes, but she kept speaking softly to him, encouraging him to breathe, and maintaining eye and skin contact to keep him grounded. After a moment, he was able to relax against the wall. Max, whining, snuggled up to his right side. He scratched at the dog's ears for a moment, and finally nodded at Darcy to let her know that he was calm. She released his face, but stayed beside him. “Bucky, can you tell us what you mean by 'program candidate'?”

He swallowed hard. “The program is successful,” he managed, his voice very low. His eyes darted to Steve and Clint, and then back to Darcy. “Recent upgrades in cryo-tech make expansion financially feasible.”

Darcy stroked his hair back, her fingers soothing against his scalp, and he leaned into her touch, his eyes desperate. “It's okay,” she murmured again. “So they were looking to expand the Winter Soldier program? To make more … assets … like you?”

He nodded. “Sniper skill set preferred. The project creates precision tools. Subject has proved susceptible to conditioning in the past.”

Clint felt like he might throw up. “Loki,” he muttered to Steve, the name like ashes in his mouth. “He's talking about Loki.”

“Yeah,” Steve replied, his hand clamping down warm and supportive on Clint's shoulder. There wasn't much else he could say.

Clint turned and looked at him, a low-grade horror in his eyes. “We can't let them,” he said softly. “We have to stop them.”

Steve said, “We will.” He steered Clint toward the couch. “Sit down for now.” He went into the kitchen and pulled ginger ales out of the refrigerator, returning and handing one to Clint. He opened a second one and offered it to Bucky. Darcy took it instead, her voice dropping down to a coaxing murmur as she explained what it was and encouraged him to drink it. 

Steve seated himself on the sofa and took a deep breath. Clint glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze flicking between the two people in the floor and Steve. “Not what you were hoping for, I guess,” he murmured.

“When is anything?” Steve said, a little hollow. Then he shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I just... I don't know what to do. He's Bucky, but... he's not Bucky.”

Clint sighed. “He's not ever gonna be that guy you knew,” he said. “Too much has happened. Hell, Steve, you're not the guy he knew, not any more. You've been apart for a long time and had experiences, and just living life from day to day changes you.”

“But he's so...” Steve looked over at them, watched Bucky take a tentative sip of the ginger ale. “Broken.”

“Aren't we all?” Clint asked. “Jesus, man. Remember what I was like right after Loki?”

Steve nodded. After the dust had settled, Clint had been in a bad way for a long time. He didn't sleep or eat much, ghosted around the tower, and spent a lot of time on ledges making people very nervous. Finally, though, he'd broken down and gone to a SHIELD therapist. Steve assumed he must have gotten one who wasn't HYDRA-affiliated, because he'd actually gotten better. But it had been a very rough time for him and for everyone who worried about him. “I remember,” he said finally.

“Well, Loki only had me for, what, a few days? HYDRA's had this poor son of a bitch since 1944.”

Steve nodded. He watched as Darcy finally convinced Bucky to come back and sit in a chair. “Well,” he said softly, “guess it's a good thing I'm in it for the long haul.”

Clint clapped his hand against Steve's shoulder. “Guess so. Guess it's a good thing you've got good backup.” Steve turned, intending to ask him what he meant, but Clint was shifting forward, moving to sit on the coffee table a little closer to Bucky, his hands open and empty, resting on his thighs. “Hey, man,” Clint said, his tone gentle and even. “Sorry I startled you. I ought to know better than that.”

Bucky stared at him, mistrust in his eyes, and said nothing.

“So,” Clint said, “I'm Clint. Which you know. And I'm a friend of Steve and Darcy's. And you're a friend of Steve and Darcy's. And hopefully you and I can be friends, too.”

Bucky was silent for a long moment, staring at the archer. Finally, just when Darcy was about to speak to break the horrible, tense silence, he opened his mouth. “My dog is called Max,” he said.

Clint smiled, and Darcy was struck suddenly by what a beautiful smile the archer had. He reached out, holding out his hand to the dog, who sniffed him briefly before offering a friendly lick. “Hi, Max,” Clint said, reaching out to scrub gently behind the dog's ears. 

Steve met Darcy's eyes, and had to swallow hard to fight back tears.


	9. Chapter 9

He spent the next several minutes watching Clint Barton pet his dog and listening to the man tell stories that were probably lies about how he grew up in a circus. There was a tap on the door, and Darcy went over to answer it, opening it up to reveal the red-haired woman from the bridge. The secondary target, he remembered: Romanoff, Natasha A. Darcy said, “I figured wherever Clint was, you wouldn't be too long after.”

The woman, Natasha, gave Darcy a very mild stink-eye, but didn't dispute the statement. Instead, she stepped into the room and placed her back against the wall beside the door.  “ Здравствуйте, Яша,” she said. 

He blinked. “Привет,” he replied. Then, because it seemed like the thing to say, he added, “Я прошу прощения, если я тебя поранил.”

“And for those of us who took Spanish for the easy A?” Darcy asked, her voice mild as she shut the door and moved back to her seat on the couch.

“He apologizes if he hurt me,” Natasha translated. She studied him. “Do you remember me at all?”

He looked at her carefully. He remembered fighting her on the bridge, of course. He remembered her name: Romanoff, Natasha A. Romanoff was a Russian name, and she had spoken Russian to him, and out of habit he had replied in Russian. Habit? 

He looked down at his dog as he tugged on that mental thread. Why was it habit to speak in Russian? He wasn't Russian. He was from Brooklyn; the exhibit at the museum had said so. But he spoke Russian. He spoke Russian to the men on the bridge. One of the medic-techs who repaired him had spoken Russian as well. 

He frowned. He looked up at her again. “Secondary target: Romanoff, Natasha A.” Then he shook his head. “That's not right.”

“Romanova,” she corrected him. “Natalia.”

He blinked. Romanova. Natalia. Natasha. Natashenka. She was small, whipcord-thin, deadly, with a burning fire inside of her. She was a vicious fighter. She was a dancer. She was... 

He looked up at her and said, “The Red Room. You were a child then.”

“Yes, I was.”

Just like he had before, he felt the ghost of a shape slip in and hazily fill a hole in his mind. “I taught you how to use a knife.”

“You taught me much more than that,” she said, but did not elaborate.

He shakes his head. “I don't remember.”

“I don't expect you to,” she replied. “As many times as they've wiped you, Yasha, I'm surprised you're still capable of feeding yourself.”

He shuddered. “I don't want to talk about that.”

“All right.” She came farther into the room. “I actually came for Clint. We're needed.”

He looked surprised. “We are?”

“It's our turn for dinner.”

“Oh.” Clint sighed, gave the dog a last vigorous rub to the head. Then he stood. “Thanks for letting me pet your dog.”

He blinked. “You're welcome.”

Clint gave him a smile - one that looked real and sincere and made him feel nice inside - and then he glanced over at Darcy and Steve. “Should we expect you tonight?”

Steve shook his head. “I think we'll lay low for a bit.”

Clint nodded. “We'll put back leftovers, if there are any.”

“Thanks,” Darcy said. 

The two of them started out the door, but Natasha stopped in the doorway and turned to face him. “Ты научил меня выживать. Я жива благодаря тебе.”

He stared at the door as it closed behind her.  _ You taught me to survive. I am alive because of you. _ He reached down and rubbed at Max's head and wondered what else was hiding in the dark corners of his mind. Then he looked up at Darcy. “Is that everyone?”

***

Darcy gave him a gentle smile. “Almost. There's Sam and Bruce, still, and Pepper, but she's in Malibu and I'm not sure when she'll be back.”

“You've met Sam,” Steve said. “The guy with the wing pack.”

“Oh.” Bucky looked uncomfortable. “Did I hurt him?”

Steve shook his head. “Nah. Roughed him up a little, that's all. You did bust his wing pack, but Tony's building him a new and improved one, so he's probably not gonna complain.” 

Bucky looked distressed at this, and Steve reached over, laying a hand on his right shoulder. “Buck, you were doing what you thought you had to do. Okay? We know you didn't want to do those things.”

Bucky shook his head, looking down at his hands. Darcy stood up. “Maybe we should do something about dinner,” she said, giving Steve a significant look.

Steve looked like he wanted to argue, to sit there and talk to Bucky until he forced Bucky to believe what he was saying. But Darcy reached over and tugged on his sleeve, jerking her head in the direction of the kitchen, and he sighed. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Bucky, is there anything you can think of that you'd like to have?”

Bucky shook his head. Steve bit his lip, hard, and then followed Darcy into the kitchen. She had a box of fettuccine out on the cabinet already, so he pulled out a pan and filled it with water. She came out of the pantry with a jar of pre-made alfredo sauce and came over to his side. “Don't push,” she murmured. “He just got here today. There's plenty of time, and he's not going to be fixed overnight.”

Steve sighed heavily. “I know,” he said. He put the pan on the stove and turned the heat on, then took her in his arms and rested his forehead against hers. “It just hurts,” he whispered. 

“I know it does,” she whispered back. “But pushing him might make it worse. You don't want him to run.”

He felt his stomach clench at the idea of Bucky running now, of Bucky breaking, of Bucky fleeing. Of spending the rest of his life wondering, knowing that Bucky was out there, broken, needing help, and not willing to come back to him because he pushed too hard. He swallowed hard. “No,” he managed. “I don't.”

“Then just be cool,” she said, running her fingers across his stomach. “Be patient. Don't chase him; let him come to you.” She waited for him to nod and take a deep breath and then she said, “And maybe make some garlic bread.” 

He blinked at the sudden change of subject, and she gave him a bright grin. “I'm going to throw some laundry on while you do that.”

“Okay.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

She patted his cheek, then glided out into the living room. “Bucky, I'm going to throw some laundry into the washing machine. Would you like me to wash your clothes?”

Bucky looked up at her, blinking. He looked a little dazed, but she didn't want to just go into his bag without permission. She tried it another way. “Do you have dirty clothes in your bag?”

He nodded. She said, “Would it be all right if I opened your bag and took them out to wash?”

His eyes went back and forth between his bag and her for a long moment. Finally, hesitantly, he nodded again. She gave him a smile and reached for the bag, making sure to use slow, telegraphed movements. She couldn't help wrinkling her nose at the stink of dirty homeless man that emanated from the inside of the bag. “Phew!” she exclaimed, waving a hand in front of her face. “Dude. Jesus. What even.”

She was answered with a rusty, choked-off laugh, and she decided to consider that sound reward enough for handling a relative stranger's funky laundry. She dumped everything that she found onto the floor, then went into Steve's room to retrieve the laundry that was there. She found the tied up bundle of weaponry in Bucky's dirty shirt and decided to leave that where it was, but she gathered everything he'd left in the bathroom and brought it all out to the utility closet beside the pantry. 

Never one to be too particular about laundry - unlike Steve, who sorted everything by color and fabric weight - Darcy tossed everything into the washing machine together with her own jeans and some of Steve's. She added some soap and turned it on, then came back out into the kitchen with a bottle of Febreze in her hand. She stalked over to Bucky's backpack and sprayed the inside of it with extreme prejudice. Then, for good measure, she sprayed the air around the backpack, the chair it had been sitting on, and then aimed a quick spritz in the direction of Bucky himself. 

He sneezed.

Darcy bit her lip, her eyes sparkling, as Bucky managed to look both surprised and disgruntled at the little droplets of scent that fell around him. He glowered at her from underneath the fringe of his hair, and she grinned back at him. “Don't give me that look,” she said. “I'm not afraid of you.”

And then she sailed back into the kitchen to put the Febreze away, leaving him sitting there in the chair, utterly astonished. 

***

She wasn't  _ afraid _ of him? How could she not be afraid of him? Everyone was afraid of him. Even his handlers were afraid of him. When they brought him out of the cold, until he was unleashed on his target, he was surrounded by heavily armed men. When he returned after completing missions, he was surrounded by heavily armed men until he went back into the cold.  _ Everyone _ was afraid of him. How could she not be afraid of him?

He sat very still, that single thought running around and around in his head like a gerbil on a wheel until he heard Steve say, “Bucky, will you come and eat?”

He stood automatically, moving into the kitchen. Steve was plating up some kind of noodles with white sauce; there was a basket of bread on the kitchen table already, covered with a towel, and Darcy was dumping tiny red tomatoes into small bowls of mixed green salad. Steve handed him a plate and nudged him toward the table; he went, seating himself and waiting. 

Darcy brought the salads, as well as a bottle of some kind of red dressing, and Steve brought both of their plates, pushing Darcy's chair out for her with his foot and giving her a cheeky grin as he did so. She poked her tongue out at him but slid into the seat anyway, murmuring her thanks as the plate settled in front of her. She flicked the towel off the bread basket, taking a piece for herself and then offering one to him while Steve put down a bowl for Max.

He took the bread as Steve seated himself. He smelled the rich garlic and butter, feeling his mouth begin to water, and took a tentative bite. The flavor exploded in his mouth, and he stared down at the bread in his hand for a moment. The question popped out before he even knew he was going to ask it. “Is this  _ khale _ ?”

“Challah,” Darcy replied. “I was in Flatbush yesterday and there's something about a Jewish bakery that I cannot pass up, regardless of how hard I try.”

“I'm going to guess it's the rugelach,” Steve murmured.

“Usually,” Darcy replied agreeably. “Sometimes it's the bialys, though.”

He ate his bread while they teased one another, letting their voices wash over him. He picked up his fork, feeling odd about it for some reason, but felt muscle memory take over when he spun it in the pasta and lifted it to his mouth.

It was delicious. He wasn't sure he'd ever had anything quite that delicious before in his life. Certainly he hadn't had anything that delicious in the last six days, and the taste of the sauce and the pasta did not fill any of the empty holes in his mind the way the sauerkraut had done earlier. But as the first bite of it hit his stomach, he realized something that he found equal parts astonishing and terrifying. 

He was  _ hungry _ . He was very,  _ very _ hungry, and the food was delicious, and he knew, in a general sort of sense, that there were rules that he was supposed to follow when eating, but he was  _ so hungry _ and the food was  _ so good _ and before he realized it, his plate was empty and he was staring at it as though by staring hard enough, he could make it not be empty any more.

Steve said, “Bucky, do you want some more?”

He lifted his head and looked at Steve. “Yes,” he said. And then he said, “Please.”

Steve grinned at him, and he felt something inside himself grow very warm. Steve stood up, taking the empty plate to the stove, and he filled it up and brought it back. Bucky said, “Thank you.” And then he added, “What is it?”

“Fettuccine alfredo,” Darcy said. “And if you think this is good, Pepper's lasagna is going to blow your mind.”

After dinner, Steve washed the dishes and Darcy moved the laundry into the dryer before saying, “Hey, Bucky, do you think Max needs a walk?”

He looked down at Max, who was sitting patiently near the front door, and said, “Yes.”

“Well,” Darcy said, “We can't walk him on the street without a leash; if the police or animal control comes by, they'd ticket us and possibly impound him. But there's a little courtyard inside the tower complex; we can take him there tonight, and then tomorrow I'll find a pet store or something and we can get some supplies. Leash, collar, proper dog food, that kind of thing.”

He nodded once, because she seemed to expect a response, and Darcy opened a drawer, pulling out a plastic shopping bag and holding it out to him. “You'll need this,” she said.

He took it, looking down at it in confusion. “What for?”

“Because you can't leave his poop laying in the courtyard, and I will wash your funk-nasty laundry but I am not picking up your dog's poop.”

He felt his lips twitch. Steve said, “He's gonna need shoes and socks to go downstairs.”

“Oh, I didn't think about that,” Darcy said. She darted off into the bedroom.

Without turning around from the sink, Steve spoke again. “I know she's a lot,” he said softly. “When I first met her, she drove me insane. About half the time I was around her, I was restraining the urge to strangle her.” He shut the water off, dried his hands on a towel, and turned. His face was still and calm. “I know you've been through hell,” he said. “And you might have problems like me, or you might have different problems. But she's special, Buck.”

He stared at Steve, working to put the threads together in his mind, and then struggling for words. At last, he managed to say, “I won't hurt her.”

Steve nodded. “Okay.”

Just then, Darcy returned. She'd pulled on a hoodie - one of Steve's, judging by the way it totally swallowed her - and was carrying his boots and a pair of socks. She held them out to him. “Here you go.”

He took them, pulling on the socks and then his boots. He checked the heel on the left one carefully - he'd modified it in order to hide his cash there - and it was still secure. Then he stood up, ready to go. Darcy leaned in to press a kiss to Steve's lips as she passed him, and then she pulled open the door. “Come on, Max,” she said, and the dog followed her. 

He stuffed the plastic bag into his pocket and followed as well, and although he didn't look back over his shoulder, he could feel Steve's eyes on him all the way to the elevator.

***

While they were gone, Steve went upstairs to see about where Bucky should sleep. The room he'd put Darcy in was still decorated and supplied for a six-year-old girl; it would hardly be appropriate to put Bucky there. The second bedroom - an analogue to the one Darcy used as the master in her apartment - was his art studio. The third bedroom was the smallest, and shared a bathroom with the art studio rather than having its own private en suite, but it would have to do for now. 

The first thing he did was lock the art studio; it wasn't that he didn't trust Bucky - though this wasn't Bucky, not really - but he didn't want anyone rifling through his work without supervision. Especially since there was more than one sketch of Bucky in the studio. Some he'd done from memory; some he'd done with reference images from history books and videos. He didn't want Bucky seeing any of them until he was ready. 

That done, he retrieved Bucky's toothbrush and a set of spare toiletries, setting them on the countertop. He put out a clean towel and wash cloth, made sure there was plenty of toilet paper, and then went into the bedroom. He looked around and wondered, not for the first time, who had done the decorating. The whole place had been furnished when he moved in, and it looked like a hotel: attractively bland and unassuming. Everything was done in mostly neutral shades, with splashes of color here and there, but nothing that really indicated personality at all.

He'd changed that in his own bedroom, of course, as well as the living room and the studio. This room and the one he still thought of as Darcy's room, though, had been closed off and unused until very recently. He was glad to see that changing. He liked it.

He and Burke had been talking recently about his social connections - or the lack thereof. He'd spent his first year or so post-wakeup in abject misery, angry at the world and at everyone in it, mostly because they were not the world and the people he knew. After New York, he'd reached out and reconnected with Peggy - for all the good it did, since she had trouble remembering from visit to visit that he'd come back - but he'd struggled with forming attachments to other people, especially his teammates.

It was, ironically, Darcy who had finally managed to bring him out of his shell - Darcy standing in the hallway and telling him that he hated her, Darcy sitting on Stark's jet and calling out all the ways he'd made her feel small and miserable and worthless. Darcy who never treated him like a burden or a celebrity; Darcy who tried to make him food that reminded him of home because her granny had taught her to show her love by feeding and caring for people. Darcy, who he turned around one day and found himself desperately in love with.

Darcy who Bucky felt safe enough to reach out to; Darcy who apparently had a soft enough touch to charm the wounded animal his best friend had become; Darcy whose gentle hands could soothe the savage beast inside both of them. He shook his head. He didn't deserve her, that was for sure. But he was damn glad to have her, and he was just selfish enough that he wasn't going to let her go, either. He'd do whatever it took to keep her.

He'd told that to Burke, just a few days ago at his last appointment, when the doctor had asked how he was doing with his new social connections. Burke had just smiled.

Steve wondered if Burke could help Bucky. He decided to ask at his next appointment; if Burke couldn't help him, maybe he knew someone who could. He thought about Clint, and the SHIELD psychologist Clint had gone to; he made a mental note to find out if Clint had still been going, and to suggest Burke if Clint needed someone new. That was something friends did, right?

He shook his head. This room needed some damn color.

The door opened downstairs and he heard Darcy chattering at Bucky about something; the door closed again, and Steve came out of the bedroom, stepping into the shadows to observe unseen. Darcy moved into the bedroom, talking over her shoulder to Bucky about Thor's abiding love of pancakes. Bucky, after a quick glance around, moved across the room. Steve recognized the expression on his face: it was one Bucky had worn many times as a child, when he was about to engage in some kind of mischief that he knew might get him into trouble.

Steve watched as Bucky crossed the room on silent assassin's feet and looked at the canvas by the window. He wondered how long Bucky had been burning with curiosity about what was on that canvas. It was the kind of thing he'd be interested in; he was just as much of an artist as Steve was.

A remarkable change went over Bucky's face when he saw the portrait and realized who it was. The blankness that was so much a part of him seemed to vanish, and for a moment, the only thing Steve could read there was shock. But it changed - and Steve knew why. The original portrait had been done in pencil and then gone over in oil pastel; when he had added the changes that the years had made, the scruff and the longer hair and the wounded expression, he had done those in very light pencil and left them that way. The image as it was now - unfinished - was eerily like an optical illusion, with the ghost of the Winter Soldier overlaid on top of the Bucky who used to be.

The look on Bucky's face now was hard to read. There was recognition there, of course, but also confusion, and a little bit of pleasure as well. Steve stepped out of the shadows and started down the stairs, and Bucky's head came up, his eyes meeting Steve's. He didn't speak until Steve stopped walking in the center of the living room. When he did, his voice was very soft. “Why?” he asked.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve explained. “And I wanted to honor you and remember you. Because you were my best friend - my brother. And you deserved that.”

Bucky's hand reached out, his fingertips gently brushing the image. “Oh,” he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Russian stuff all came from an online translator. If anyone speaks Russian and it's wrong, please tell me and I'll fix it. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm back! Thank you all for your patience with me over the last couple of weeks. My papers are all done!
> 
> That said, it looks like this week I'll be making like Darcy and going home to Texas for a funeral. My fantastically bad-ass actual-Nazi-fighting Uncle George has passed at the respectable age of 94, and the funeral Mass is Saturday, so it may be a few days before I update again. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

He followed Steve up the stairs, his dog trotting along beside him, and Steve showed him into a small, plain bedroom. He looked around, eyes taking in everything he saw and cataloging it all. Bed: double. Neutral spread. Pillows. Single window: eighty-eighth floor, likely doesn't open, no balcony. Pictures on two walls. Bedside table with lamp. Bureau. Small wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Framed photographs. Closet: open, empty except for some books on a shelf. Bathroom: small; single vanity, toilet, shower-and-tub combo. Toiletries on the counter.

Steve said, “This'll be your room for now, okay? I have another guest room that has a private bath, but it needs some setup before you can use it.”

He nodded. Looked around the room again, his brain automatically marking the danger spots and noting which of the furnishings and decorations could be used as weapons and how. He said nothing. He didn't know what he wanted to say.

Steve reached down and rubbed Max's head. “If you need anything, anything at all, come get me. Okay?”

He nodded. Waited. Steve clearly wanted something, but was nervous about it. Finally Steve said, “Bucky... I know I shouldn't push, and I don't want to freak you out, but...” He swallowed hard. “I don't know how long it's been for you. But for me, it's been a couple of years since... since you fell. And I thought you were dead until D.C. And I...” He paused, swallowed again, cleared his throat. “I'd really like to hug you, if that's okay.”

He blinked. Of all the things he might have expected Steve to say, that definitely had not been on the list. He wondered when the last time was that he'd been hugged. He couldn't remember. He didn't think that was allowed. He stared at Steve for a long moment, feeling oddly hollow somewhere in his chest. He struggled to breathe, struggled to think, struggled to put words together in his mind. And finally he gave up. “Yes,” he said simply.

Steve stepped forward, his movements certain but slow, and when they were almost touching, Steve lifted his arms. They went around his shoulders, warm and sure. Uncertain how to respond, he closed his eyes and let instinct take over. His arms came up, his hands resting against Steve's back, and Steve pulled him in close, wrapping around him tightly.

He stood there, very still, breathing in the clean smell that emanated from Steve's skin and clothing, and feeling the desperate way Steve clung to him, the shuddering that accompanied Steve's every breath. He wasn't sure he was doing it right - he was fairly certain that Steve was crying, and he wasn't sure but he didn't think people were supposed to cry when they hugged - but Steve seemed to be all right with it, so he stood there, waiting.

At last, though, Steve let him go, and so he dropped his own hands and Steve stepped back, trying to wipe his eyes surreptitiously. “Thank you,” Steve said softly. “I missed you, Bucky. I missed you a _lot_.”

He didn't know what to say, so he didn't say anything. At last, Steve reached out and clapped his shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. “Try to get some sleep,” he said. “And come get me if you need anything. All right?”

He nodded, and watched as Steve left the room, pulling the door gently shut behind him as he went.

Max hopped up onto the foot of the bed, turned a couple of circles, and settled in with a low  _whuff_ .

He wasn't tired. Or, rather, he  _was_ tired, but there was so much going on in his mind that there was no way he would be able to sleep. He stood at the window for a long time, staring out at the city, trying hard  _not_ to think about things, because all of the thoughts would settle better that way, and some of them might find their way into some of those empty places in his mind that needed filling. The cityscape wasn't doing the trick, though, so he looked into the closet, poking at the books on the shelf. 

He didn't recognize any of the titles - but that wasn't terribly surprising. He finally chose one at random - one that looked like the first in a series, just in case it was good and he finished it. He looked at the bed for a long minute before settling himself in the floor, his back against the wall in the corner. That felt better. Safer. 

He opened the book and began to read.  _Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much._

***

Darcy was sitting on the side of the bed when Steve came down, waiting. He thought he'd done a fairly good job at straightening his face before entering the room, but from her expression, he knew immediately that she saw right through him. Wordlessly she held out her arms, and he couldn't help it: he came to her, curled himself around her, and slumped onto the mattress, holding her like a child holds a teddy bear and letting the hot, painful tears fall into her hair.

She held him tightly, her fingers stroking his head and neck, and she let him cry, whispering gentle words into his ear, encouraging him to let it out, letting him know that she wouldn't let him go. Once the storm of weeping was finally past, he took a deep, shuddering breath, and shifted, rearranging them so that her head was pillowed on his shoulder, her arm stretched across his torso. His breath still shuddered in his chest, and she continued to pet him with gentle, soothing strokes.

Finally he spoke. “He's so fucking  _broken_ ,” he whispered.

“I know,” Darcy murmured. “I was afraid... when you told me how he was in D.C., I knew it would be bad, but this is....”

“I don't know if I'm equipped for this,” he admitted. 

“You're not,” she said simply.

He raised his head, looking down at her with an expression of deep consternation. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“It's not about confidence,” she replied, rolling onto her stomach and propping herself up on her elbows to face him. “I have every confidence in you. I have every confidence that you'll absolutely do everything in your power to help him get better again. But Steve, you're _not_ equipped for this. I'm not either. In fact, the only person in this tower even remotely equipped for this is Sam, and I'm pretty sure _he_ doesn't have everything it's going to take. But that doesn't mean you can't help him, and it doesn't mean we can't _get_ help for him.”

Steve paused, considering. “Getting him doctors, you mean.”

Darcy nodded. “Doctors, medications, whatever it might take. Steve, we will do  _whatever it takes_ . But you're not going to be able to do everything for him.  _You_ , by yourself, are not equipped to fix him.”

He dropped his head back onto the pillow, sighing. “You're right.”

“Of course I am,” she said easily, settling back into his arms. 

***

The halls were full of the icy chill of winter as he made his way silently over their cobblestoned floors. He wasn't worried about being seen; he was a past master of moving in the shadows, plus he had his invisibility cloak. He stepped quietly, passing the portraits as they snoozed in their frames and listening carefully for Mrs. Norris, who diligently prowled the halls, looking for students out of bed, or interlopers like himself.

He didn't know how long he stalked the corridors before he found what he was looking for, but at last he located it. He pushed the wooden door open and there, in a puddle of moonlight in the middle of a dusty, disused classroom, stood his goal.

He slipped into the room, pushing the door closed behind him, and let the cloak slip from his shoulders, tossing it onto a nearby table. He stalked toward his goal.

He circled the mirror, examining it carefully. It looked fairly ordinary, if ornate: gold (or more likely gilt) framed, slightly taller and wider than himself, it looked like nothing more than what it was. He stood to one side of it, examining his reflection from an angle. He studied his own face. His hair was long and matted, his beard scruffy. His armor was dirty and scuffed, and a couple of spots were in need of repair. He couldn't see his metal arm in the glass from this angle, but it was probably damaged as well.

_He_ was damaged.  _He_ needed repair. 

He shook his head, glancing up at the engraving across the top of the mirror.  _ erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohs i _ . He wondered what it meant; it was no language he recognized. He shrugged. That wasn't his problem; the meaning of the engraving was outside the parameters of his mission. He moved, placing himself directly in front of the mirror, and he looked into it.

His reflection looked back at him, tall and strapping and young, clean shaven and closely-shorn, dressed in Army greens. A tag on his chest read “BARNES” and he smirked out of the mirror like he knew all the secrets of the universe and a few more besides.

He stared at the brash, cocky fellow in the mirror, utterly unable to comprehend what he was seeing. And then the reflection shifted slightly, turned, glanced over its shoulder. It raised its arm, and a small figure joined it.

Short and skinny, the blond child wrapped his frail arms around the reflection's waist, and the reflection draped its own arm over the narrow shoulders. The boy couldn't have been more than five or six, and he stared out of the mirror with huge, hungry blue eyes. Even without the sound of wheezing, it was obvious that the boy struggled with his breath; the reflection paused to rub the child's back soothingly, and it seemed to help a little.

He didn't know how long he stood there, staring at that strapping young man and his tiny, frail charge. It had to be hours. He couldn't understand. Why did it hurt to look at them? Why did he feel such a desperate longing? What was going  _ on _ ?

And then his thoughts were interrupted by a voice.

“So - back again, Bucky?”

He was caught! He gasped and spun in place - 

and nearly brained himself on the corner of the bedside table. Max sat up on the bed, whining in question. His heart was pounding inside his chest and his breath coming in short gasps.

He couldn't think, couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't remember, and all he knew was  _ steve will keep me safe steve promised to keep me safe _ . He scrambled from the room, barely managing to keep his feet under him on the way down the stairs, and he froze in the doorway.

Steve and Darcy were lying on the bed, curled up together, asleep in the moonlight that poured in the window. He felt a whine building up in the back of his throat. He needed Steve. Steve promised. He needed -  _ needed _ \- 

He moved slowly, stalking through the shadows like the very night itself, and rounded the bed. He stood there, staring down at them for a very long time, watching them sleep, matching the rhythm of his breath to theirs. 

And then, very carefully, he lowered himself onto the side of the bed.

When the mattress shifted, so did Steve. He froze, but Steve didn't wake, so he continued, laying himself down and stretching out on the ridiculously soft surface. And then he curled himself up again, sliding across the comforter and pressing himself, slowly and gently, against Steve's back.

Steve didn't wake. Darcy didn't wake.

He breathed out a long, slow sigh.  _ Safe. _

He slept.

***

When Steve woke the next morning, the first thing he was aware of was Darcy's warm weight in his arms. The second thing was that they'd fallen asleep on top of the covers. The third thing was that there was something hard pressing between his shoulder blades, and something else against his butt. Two somethings, actually. He turned his head carefully, trying not to disturb anything, and breathed a soft sigh of surprise and relief when he realized what it was.

Bucky was curled up in a fetal ball, his forehead pressed against Steve's back, and the two hard things pushing against Steve's butt were his knees. He must have slipped into the bed somehow during the night, though Steve couldn't imagine how he'd managed it without waking either of them. He wondered what had brought Bucky to his bed, but couldn't help the small part of him that was grateful he'd come. The fact that he was there, and making himself vulnerable in sleep, told Steve more than anything else about where his mind was.

He  _ trusted _ Steve. They were going to need that trust for the foreseeable future; it was going to be a long road to get Bucky healed.

Steve closed his eyes again, murmuring a prayer of thanks to the God he wasn't always sure he still believed in. He had a chance, however slim, and however rocky the road might be. He had a chance. He clung to that beacon of hope as he drifted back to sleep.

***

Darcy woke with a slow stretch and a yawn. Without opening her eyes, she rolled over - and fell off the edge of the bed. Before she even had a chance to register that she was falling, she hit the floor with a bang that brought both Steve and Bucky out of the bed immediately, both of them automatically searching for the threat. She waved a hand from the floor. “Nothing to see here. Move along.”

“Darce?” Steve gasped, his heart pounding in his chest. “The hell are you doin'?”

“Practicing for the goddamn Olympics,” she snarled. “The hell's it _look_ like I'm doing?”

He came to her side and hauled her up out of the floor as Bucky, looking bemused, leaned against the foot of the bed. “Did you actually fall out of bed?” Steve asked. “Christ, Darce, you really  _ are _ a danger to the living and the dead.”

“I told you so,” Darcy replied, grinning cheekily. She rubbed at her face. “I don't think I broke anything. Are my teeth still there?” She opened her mouth wide.

Steve gripped her upper incisors and tugged very gently. “Looks like.”

“Well, there's a load off,” Darcy grumbled. She rubbed at her face again, then leaned around Steve, cocking an eyebrow. “Morning, Bucky.”

Bucky gave her a gentle smile but didn't speak. Darcy figured that was good enough. She yawned again. “Well, since I'm up, I guess I'd better have a shower and run down to the pet store.”

“We'll make breakfast,” Steve said. He nudged Darcy in the direction of the bathroom, then reached out and clapped Bucky on his metal shoulder. “Come on, Buck. Eggs or pancakes?”

Bucky shrugged slightly, and Steve said, “Both sounds good to me, too.”

As it turned out, there was no need for a trip to the pet store; they were just finishing breakfast when JARVIS announced a delivery for Bucky, and when Steve went to the door, one of the building's porters was just coming out of the elevator with a cart. On it rested three large bags of some kind of gourmet dog food and a box full of dog supplies: a collar, a leash, food and water dishes, and a variety of toys and treats. There was no indication of who had ordered the supplies until Darcy filled the water dish; the paint on the bottom of the dish reacted to the cold water and a picture of Iron Man appeared on the bottom of the bowl. She and Steve cackled over that one, and Bucky gave that same gentle smile but didn't speak.

In fact, Darcy realized as she was getting dressed for work, Bucky hadn't spoken at all that morning. She mentioned it quietly to Steve while Bucky was upstairs showering, and he promised to keep an eye on the situation, so she headed down to the labs. Steve got the laundry out of the dryer and folded it, carrying Bucky's clothes upstairs so he would have something of his own to wear when he got out of the shower. Then he put away his own things and Darcy's.

Max came downstairs once Bucky got out of the shower. Steve called him into the kitchen to see where the water and food dishes were, then led him into the master bathroom and put him in the tub. Several minutes and a couple of very strong disagreements later, Max was bathed and Steve went into the bedroom to change into everyday clothes.

When he came out, Bucky was sitting on the floor in front of the sofa, Max in his lap, staring out the windows. If it hadn't been for the fact that his right hand, which rested on the dog's head, was very softly fondling the dog's ears, Steve might have thought him a perfectly lifelike statue. “Hey, Buck?” he said softly, moving to stand near his friend. “Do you have anything that you want to do today?”

Bucky shook his head. Steve said, “Well, if you think of anything - anything at all - let me know, okay?”

Bucky nodded. Steve stood there for a moment, watching him, before he felt the itch strike in his fingers. He said, “I'll be right back,” and turned, heading upstairs. He slipped into the art studio and picked up his good sketch pad. Then he came back out again, locking the studio behind him. Bucky was still where Steve had left him, and Steve grabbed a pack of pencils off the little table near the easel, plopping himself down in one of the big chairs. He settled himself carefully, took a deep breath, and let himself fall into the paper.

Neither of them moved or spoke for a very long time after that, but the silence between them wasn't awkward; it was the same silence that had lived between them so many times in the past, when one or the other of them had served as a model. Steve let his mind drift, briefly, to those last halcyon days before the war, when he and Bucky had been taking art classes together at the Institute and hunting up WPA jobs to keep themselves in food and art supplies. He remembered the first one either of them had gotten, and how proud they both had been when they'd happened to be in the library one day, and a poster that Bucky had designed promoting children's literacy had been hanging there over the shelves. 

Then he remembered the day they heard about the bombing of Pearl Harbor. They had been in class, and Steve could almost remember the exact angle of the sunlight as it streamed in through the skylight, lining Bucky's face with gold as he flirted with a pretty blonde girl who was working on a sculpture.

His heart sank a little bit and he shook himself out of his reverie, looking down at the sketch in his hands and then back up at the subject. Bucky was still staring out the windows - or possibly into some unfathomable distance inside his mind. 

Steve turned the page in his sketchbook and started anew.

***

Just after noon, a quiet tap came at the door. Bucky didn't react, but Steve put his sketch pad aside and went to answer it. Bruce Banner stood there with a tentative smile on his face. “Hi,” he said, his voice gentle as usual. “Darcy said I should come by and say hello to your friend.”

“You can come in,” Steve said, stepping aside and opening the door wider, “but I don't guarantee you'll get anything back. He hasn't actually said anything today.”

Bruce nodded. “He may have days where he's uncommunicative,” he said. “And he may have some days where you can't get him to shut up. Those kinds of mood swings are common in abuse survivors and people with significant trauma to the brain.”

“Trauma?” Steve asked, surprised.

Bruce nodded. “Darcy and Natasha both told me what they know of what was done to him. Involuntary elecro-stim, at the kind of levels needed to cause that much amnesia...” He paused, shaking his head. “Frankly, Steve, I'm surprised they didn't just turn his brain into so much oatmeal.” He paused, studying Bucky, who had not moved. “Natasha seemed to indicate that he might have been... exposed to a variety of the serum.”

Steve sighed. “It's the most likely explanation,” he said. The serum was still such a touchy subject for Bruce, but dancing around it would do nobody any good. “When the one-oh-seventh was captured in Italy, I found him strapped to a table. Zola had been doing some kind of experiments on him. He never would say, afterward, what had happened, but... Bruce, he fell off a train in the  _ Alps _ doing a hundred miles an hour. There's no way an un-enhanced human could have survived it. He should have...” He swallowed, waving an expressive hand. “He should have been so much spatter on the ground.”

“And yet here he is, relatively unharmed except for the loss of limb, and having survived years of the kind of torture that should have left him a drooling vegetable.” Bruce shook his head. “For something that was supposed to be a one-off, that serum sure does keep cropping up all over the place.”

“Like a bad penny,” Steve said bitterly.

“Well,” Bruce said, “I'm actually here with... a suggestion.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “I'm listening.”

“Darcy was telling me a little bit about the struggles he's having, and the fact that he's going to need help, and... well, I have a contact who might be just what you need. I thought I'd come talk to you about it. I'm almost certain he'll be willing to come and assist, but I don't know how you feel about... mutants.”

Steve blinked. “Mutants? You mean like Logan - Wolverine?”

Bruce nodded. “Yes. People who - unlike you and I - were born with the extraordinary abilities that they have. I've done some work for one of them - Charles Xavier. He has a school for young mutants - he calls them gifted - upstate. And he has some of the most extraordinary mental abilities I've ever seen. If anyone could help Bucky, I think Professor Xavier could.”

Steve gnawed on his lip for a long minute, considering. Then he walked around the couch, crouching down to get Bucky's attention. “Buck? Dr. Banner says he knows someone who might be able to help you with... everything that's going on inside your head. Would you be all right if he called this person? No one will be upset if you say no, but if you say yes, I'll be with you every step of the way. What do you think?”

Bucky stared at him for a long time, and just when Steve was starting to think that he might not respond, he gave a short nod. Steve let out a gentle breath of relief. He looked up at Bruce. “Please,” he said. “If you think he can help... please, call him.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys! I'm off to Texas tomorrow, so there probably won't be any more updates until this time next week, as I'll be in the middle of an impromptu family reunion and probably won't be allowed any time to myself. I'll miss you all! <3

Professor Xavier very kindly agreed to come to the city and see if he could help Bucky. When Bruce explained the situation - what Bucky had endured and how he had been affected, as well as the fact that some of his memories seemed to be returning when triggered, Xavier told Bruce that eh actually felt fairly confident. “It sounds very much as though the memories are there, but the programming has been set to prevent him from accessing them at will. A mental block, if you will. It is quite likely that, with Sergeant Barnes's assistance, I will be able to find that block and help him to overcome it. I can't guarantee anything, of course, but right now I feel fairly confident.”

Bruce did not tell this to Steve and Darcy; he didn't want to get their hopes up in case Xavier got there and found out that things were worse than they thought. He simply told them that Xavier had agreed to come at his earliest convenience - which, it happened, would be in three days.

Those three days were both extremely easy and extremely difficult. They were easy, in that Bucky was very simple to deal with. He adapted to Darcy and Steve's routine quickly, rising with them in the mornings and going about his day as if he'd always been there. Given simple tasks, he would complete them with a will, and often afterward bask in a quiet glow of pride that he had been helpful. Lavished with praise, he seemed to blossom. Shy smiles escaped every time he was thanked, and he stopped panicking every time he made a mistake. 

They were difficult, in that Bucky had completely stopped talking, and utterly refused to be outside of either Steve or Darcy's company. He would not be alone at all, and the one time Darcy asked him to stay with Clint while she went on an errand resulted in a panic attack so severe that she'd been afraid he would have to be sedated. 

“He's like a kid,” Darcy confessed to Jane on the second day, while Bucky was in the gym with Steve. “A really scared, traumatized little kid.”

“He's still not talking?” Jane asked.

Darcy shook her head. “Sam says it's selective mutism. He says it's fairly common among people who've been through the kinds of things he's been through, because they go for so long with no control over anything. Then they realize that this is something they control - whether or not they speak - and it's just a little thing, but it's  _ something _ , so that's what they choose.”

Jane considered that. “So, in other words, he's being stubborn just for the sake of being stubborn.”

“Not exactly,” Darcy replied. “I did some Googling. Some people, after trauma, will choose to stop speaking. Others find that they actually _can't_ speak, even if they try. But it's not for the sake of being stubborn. It's about being overwhelmed and feeling out of control and needing something to hold onto.”

“Hmm.” Jane considered that, eyeballing Darcy over the rim of her coffee cup. “Is he still sleeping with you?”

Darcy huffed out a soft laugh. “Did I mention it was like having a really scared, traumatized little kid?”

“I believe you did,” Jane replied, smirking. “Does he like to sleep in the middle with his teddy bear?”

“Be nice,” Darcy replied. “He can't help what's happened to him.”

“I know,” Jane said softly, apology in her tone.

“And anyway, no, he doesn't. He actually curls up in a little ball behind Steve. It's kind of adorable, but it's also kind of heartbreaking at the same time.” Darcy shook her head. “I think he has nightmares, but he doesn't scream. He just lays there and shivers. And last night I'm pretty sure he was crying.”

Jane's face crumpled. “Oh, God,” she said. “Now I feel like a horrible person.”

“Well, you should,” Darcy said mildly. 

“I didn't mean -”

Darcy waved a hand. “I know you didn't. Just... try not to make jokes like that around him or Steve.  _ I _ know you were trying to be funny, but Steve would probably get mad, and you might hurt Bucky's feelings.”

Jane sighed. “I'm sorry,” she mumbled.

Darcy stood and crossed the lab, reaching over to pat Jane's shoulder. “It's okay. Really. You were trying to be funny. But I've told you before not to do that.”

Jane gave a hollow laugh. “Yes, yes you have.”

A tap on the door frame interrupted them; it was Steve, with Bucky trailing behind as usual. “Hey,” Steve said. “Tony needs me up in his lab, and Bucky gets kind of agitated about the bots. Can he stay with you for a little while?”

“Sure.” Darcy gave Bucky a bright smile. “Come on in, Bucky; there's no bots in here, so you should be okay. Unless Jane decides to open up a black hole.”

“Not on the agenda,” Jane asserted. “Today is for white holes only.”

“I thought today was yellow holes.”

“Both of you need to stop before this turns dirty,” Steve interrupted. “I've seen how you get.”

“Boo,” Darcy replied. “You're no fun.”

“That's not what you said last night,” Steve replied easily, vanishing down the hall as Jane choked softly on her coffee and Darcy collapsed against the table, howling.

When she settled a bit, still snickering, Bucky was waiting in the doorway, patient, with a polite little smile on his face like he didn't get the joke but was willing to be included anyway if that was all right with everyone else. Darcy came to his side, reaching out and wrapping her hand around his metal one and tugging him gently into the room. “Come on, Bucky,” she said. “Sit down, take a load off.” She nudged him toward her desk. “Jane and I were actually doing a whole lot of nothing while the numbers compile.”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, a gesture of confusion, and Darcy explained, “Jane's an astrophysicist. She studies the stars, and things that happen in outer space. Right now she's trying to learn how to build wormholes that can be used for space travel.”

Both women watched as Bucky processed this information, an expression of patent disbelief crossing his face. Jane chuckled. “I know! It sounds like science fiction. And until Thor came from Asgard, that's what everyone thought. They called me a crackpot, you know. Said I was crazy.” She grinned, a little manic as she showed all her teeth. “And now they all want to know what I know about how it's done.”

Darcy turned her back on Jane, caught Bucky's attention, and rolled her eyes hard. Bucky gave her that lovely shy smile, and Darcy chuckled. “Anyway, as I was saying, we have to input the data into the computer, and then the computer crunches all the numbers. And that takes awhile, but we can't do much else until it's done, so -”

At that moment, Darcy was interrupted by a frantic beeping from one of the machines. Jane leapt to her feet. “Except that!” she exclaimed, rushing to the back of the lab. “We can do a  _ lot _ of that!”

“Is that the spectrograph?” Darcy asked, incredulous. “I thought it was -”

“It  _ is _ !” Jane screeched. “Get over here!”

Darcy pressed a hand to Bucky's shoulder. “Just sit here,” she said. She pointed at her tablet. “You can mess with my StarkPad, if you want to. And if you want anything to drink, there's water and soda in that mini-fridge over there, or coffee in the pot. You can have whatever you like, okay?” She waited for him to nod in acknowledgement before darting across the lab to help Jane.

***

He watched the two women work for a minute until he realized that they weren't going to do anything remotely interesting. Apparently their kind of science involved looking at computer screens and yelling numbers back and forth at one another. He found himself strangely disappointed; he'd had an idea in his mind that science meant explosions or things changing into other things or, at the very least, something interesting to look at.

He picked up the tablet that Darcy had pointed out. She'd shown him how to use it already, so he switched it on, perusing the little icons until he came across one that looked interesting. He thumbed it open and studied it. It took him a few minutes to figure out how it worked, but once it did, there was that sudden, shifting sensation again, of a memory sliding into place in his mind, and he felt something inside of him sing with joy.

He laid the pad flat on the desktop, picked up the stylus, and went to work.

***

When Steve came back, about an hour later, he found Darcy and Jane doing SCIENCE! at the far end of the lab, and Bucky sitting at Jane's desk, hunched over something and apparently working very hard at it. He walked over, making enough noise to avoid startling Bucky, but Bucky didn't even look up; he was busy. Steve stopped at the side of the desk and leaned, blinking in surprise at what he saw.

Bucky had found the drawing app on Darcy's StarkPad - the one that she occasionally used to doodle anime figures and he sometimes used when he wanted to test techniques before trying them on paper. The first shaky strokes were visible on the paper - Bucky unsure of himself, rediscovering his abilities - but they were all but buried under the flood of imagery that had followed. 

The background was made up of broad watercolor strokes of deep crimson. In the center of the image was Bucky's own face - or rather, that of the Winter Soldier, in full battle gear: goggles over his eyes and mask covering his nose and mouth. As Steve watched, beneath the face of the Winter Soldier, the catwalk on the third helicarrier came into being, himself in bright royal blue at one end and Bucky in solid black at the other. Beneath that, in gold, four words in Cyrillic lettering: но я его знал.

Steve didn't know what it meant, but it broke his heart all the same. He said nothing, though, until Bucky raised his head, looking up at Steve as if for approval. Steve reached over and touched an icon. “That's how you save it,” he said softly. “So you can look at it again later, if you want to. Or we could print it out.”

Bucky looked down at the image again, then back up at Steve, almost as if to say  _ Why the hell would you want to do that? _ But he held his peace, and Steve didn't press. Instead, he said, “Tony's done with me. I thought maybe you'd like to take Max for a walk. There's a dog park not too far from here; we could take him and let him play with other dogs.”

Bucky nodded, standing up, and Steve turned to call across the room. “Hey, Darce! Buck and I are heading out.” Darcy waved back in acknowledgement, and the two of them left the room.

***

The next day, Professor Xavier arrived exactly at one in the afternoon. He didn't come alone; he had one companion with him, and when Steve came down to the lobby to show them in, he found himself slightly surprised but not at all displeased to discover that the professor's companion was someone he already knew. He offered his hand to the Wolverine, grinning broadly. “Logan! I'd heard rumors you were still around!”

Logan took his hand and shook it firmly. “Cap. Heard about you gettin' back. Bit of a mess you got yourself into down there in D.C., though.”

“Just a bit.” Steve shook his head. “But let's save that for later.” He turned to the older man in the wheelchair and offered his hand. “Professor Xavier? I'm Steve Rogers. Thank you so much for coming.”

“Of course,” Xavier replied, smiling warmly. “I'm happy to help.”

“Come on upstairs and I'll fill you in on what I know.” Steve led them to the single private elevator that went up to the Avengers' floors and leaned in to the retinal scanner. The door slid open, and he gestured. “Gentlemen.”

Xavier entered first, maneuvering his chair easily, and Logan followed. Steve brought up the rear, the door slid shut, and Steve said, “JARVIS, eighty-seven, please.”

The elevator started rising and Steve leaned against the wall. “How much do you want to know?” he asked, his eyes meeting the professor's. “Everything? Or do you want to find out for yourself once you... see him?”

“I know a bit already,” Xavier admitted. “Dr. Banner told me that Sergeant Barnes has been badly traumatized. He described repeated, excessive applications of electric shock intended to cause amnesia, application of mental programming techniques, and I believe he mentioned several decades in cryogenic preservation, as well as garden-variety torture and general mistreatment.”

Steve nodded, rubbing a hand over his face. “That's the general gist of it, yes,” he said. “They turned him into nothing more than a killing machine. He doesn't even think of himself as a person; he responds to his name, but I think he mostly does that because he knows we want him to. When we talked with him about names, he said that tools don't get names; they get labels.”

Logan made a sound of anger. “That's fucked up,” he said simply.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “That's pretty much how I feel about it.”

“Does he remember anything at all?” Logan asked.

Steve shrugged. “Some things. Not much. But he doesn't remember them like he's remembering, if that makes sense. He remembers them like he remembers  _ reading _ about it or something. Like a story someone told him.”

Xavier nodded. “That's a good thing, though,” he said gently. “At least the memories are there. It may just be that he needs help accessing them and remembering how to use them.”

The elevator slowed and stopped, the doors sliding open. Steve stepped out and led Logan and the Professor to his door. He tapped on it before pushing it open, just to avoid startling anyone. Inside, Darcy sat on the floor, petting Max, and Bucky was sitting in a chair just as Steve had a few days ago, sketching her. Steve smiled slightly at the sight.

Both of them looked up when the door opened, and Max gave a low  _ whuff _ . Darcy rubbed his head. “Shush, Maxie, it's just Steve and some friends.” Bucky looked concerned, but Darcy shook her head at him. “It's okay, Bucky. Dogs bark; it's what they do. He's just doing his job.”

Steve entered, holding the door for Professor Xavier and Logan. The Wolverine paused, taking in the sight of Bucky sitting there in the chair. “Damn, Barnes,” he said, shaking his head. “You look like hell.”

Bucky looked to Steve, back at Logan, and then back at Steve, raising his eyebrows. Steve said, “Bucky, this is Logan, also known as Wolverine. We knew him back in the day; he fought with us against the Hand and Baron Strucker, and then later in Tunisia.”

Bucky's brow furrowed for a moment, clearly a  _ thinking _ expression, but then cleared. He gave an apologetic shake of his head. Logan said, “Maybe this'll help.” He held up a fist, and with a soft  _ snick _ , extended one set of claws. They gleamed in the lamplight.

Bucky fell back and away from him so fast that he tripped over his own feet and fell, scrabbling backward like a crab. Logan retracted his claws immediately, looking startled, and Darcy let go of Max, who darted over to Bucky's side. Steve followed, taking a knee beside his friend. “Buck, relax. He's not going to hurt you. It's just a thing he can do; he thought if you saw it, it might help you remember. It's okay.”

Bucky trembled, but allowed Steve to help him up and bring him back to the sofa. Logan moved obligingly across the room, seating himself at the kitchen counter and leaning back to watch. Darcy reached out and patted Bucky's arm. “It's okay,” she murmured. “They're friends. They're here to help you.”

He gave her a look of patent disbelief, but politely turned his attention to Professor Xavier when the older man addressed him. “Bucky, my name is Charles Xavier,” he said, pitching his voice to be low and soothing. “Steve and Dr. Banner - Bruce - asked me to come and see you. I know quite a lot about the mind, and about some of the things that HYDRA did to you, and if it's all right with you, I'd like to see what I can do about helping to repair that damage. Would it be all right with you if I tried?”

Bucky looked at Steve, and then at Darcy. They both nodded encouragingly. He swallowed hard, turned his eyes back to the Professor, and nodded. Xavier gave him a warm, gentle smile. “All right, then,” he said. He held out a hand. Bucky stared at it for a moment, then reached out and tentatively laid his own right hand on top of Xavier's.

And they fell.

***

The landing hurt like hell.

Bucky stood in the snow and stared down at himself. Then he turned and looked at the man standing beside him. “That's me,” he said.

“Yes, it is.”

“That really fuckin' hurt,” he said.

“I should imagine so,” Xavier replied. “You fell rather a long way.”

Bucky looked up, gauging the distance to the tracks. The train was already long gone in the distance, not even its echoes remaining. “Steve's gonna carry this one around for a long time,” he said. “But it wasn't his fault.”

“You'll need to tell him that.”

“Yeah.” Bucky looked back down at the place where he lay on the snow. “So that's where I lost the arm,” he said. 

“So it would seem,” Xavier said.

“Huh.” Bucky continued to look at himself for a moment, then turned and looked at Xavier. “So, what now?”

“Now comes the hard part,” Xavier said. “Show me your mind.”

“How?”

“Close your eyes.” He waited until Bucky had done so, and then said, “Think about how your mind feels when you try to remember things. How did you feel just now, when you were introduced to Logan and told that you knew him before? When you tried to remember him, and nothing happened? How did the inside of your mind feel at that moment?”

Bucky frowned. He reached inside, stepping out of the memory of his fall, and then his eyes flew open again. Now, instead of that snowy Alpine pass, he and the professor stood in a vast, echoingly empty space. He looked around slowly, and said, “Yeah. This is about right.”

There were odd gaps in the space, as though some patches of the air were even more empty than other patches. Xavier moved slowly through the space, examining some of the empty patches, and he said, “I'm put in mind of an art gallery.”

Bucky looked around. He narrowed his eyes at one hazy feature in the distance, and he strode towards it. It was Steve, but it was a transparent Steve, one that flickered in and out of existence, trying to share its space with something that was strikingly similar but much smaller and more delicate in size and shape. He said, “Yeah, kinda. I... I think maybe this used to be a statue room or something.”

Xavier nodded. “Now, let us see if we can discover where these statues have all gone.”

They walked together through the emptiness, and Bucky said, “I thought you were in a wheelchair.”

“I am,” Xavier replied easily. “But here, I am not constrained by the limits of my physical form. Neither are you.”

Bucky paused, looking down at himself. He had been wearing a pair of jeans and one of Steve's shirts that was slightly too large for him. Now he was wearing his own clothes: a pair of slacks and a casual blue sweater. “Huh,” he said simply.

“Within the confines of one's mind,” Xavier said, “one can be anything one likes.”

“Mmm,” Bucky replied.

Some time later - it could have been minutes or hours - the massive expanse of space simply stopped at a wall. “Here it is,” Bucky said. “I thought this was here.”

“So did I,” Xavier replied, “from what your friends told me.”

“I tried to get past this before,” Bucky said. “I couldn't. I think there's a door somewhere, but I don't know where it is.”

“Make a new one,” Xavier said simply.

“I can do that?”

“It's  _ your _ mind. I would caution you, though, to make a  _ door _ and not a door _ way _ . The feeling of access is heady at first, but you may find that there will be days that you will want to shut that door.”

Bucky considered. Then he nodded. “That makes sense,” he said. He studied the wall for a moment, then reached out tentatively with his left hand. He tried not to be surprised when it was made of flesh, remembering what Xavier had just said. He placed his hand against the wall, closed his eyes, and visualized a door. It was nothing elaborate; a simple wooden door with a knob. When he opened his eyes again, there was a door in the wall, just like he'd imagined except for the presence of an old-fashioned lock. A key stuck out of the lock.

He frowned at it. “I didn't put that there,” he said.

Xavier blinked at him. “No?”

Bucky shook his head. “No. I didn't put a key there. I don't want to lock the door, just be able to open it and shut it. If I can lock it, someone else can, too. I don't want that.” He reached out with his left hand to pull the key out of the lock, but when his fingers touched it, a massive electric shock burst from it. He screamed in pain

_ (no no the machine no steve you promised) _

and came back to himself lying on his back, panting softly and staring up into Xavier's kind, worried eyes. He coughed. “That hurt like hell,” he managed.

“I should imagine so,” Xavier said. He waited until Bucky could sit up on his own, then turned and crouched down to examine the lock. “Let's just see what this is all about, shall we?”


	12. Chapter 12

Bucky watched nervously as Xavier drew close to the door, examining the key and the lock carefully. The older man did not move to touch the door or any part of the knob, lock, or key, for which Bucky was grateful. The pain hadn't been nearly as bad as being stuck into that machine, clamped down with the rubber guard in his mouth and fire pouring into his brain, but it had been enough of a reminder that he was exceedingly wary of doing anything to trigger a repeat performance.

After some time of poking and prodding - which Bucky could actually _feel_ , in a distant way, like the press of gentle fingers around a wound - Xavier stood up. “I'd like you to try making another door,” he said.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Okay,” he drawled. “Any particular reason why?”

“I suspect that I know what this is, and the making of another door will confirm or disprove my suspicions,” he said. “I'd like you to make the door to certain specifications.”

Bucky considered the idea, then shrugged. “Okay,” he said, standing up. “Lay it on me.” He walked up to the wall, to a space about two feet away from the first door, and laid his left hand on it, closing his eyes as he had done before.

“Visualize a door,” Xavier said, “slightly taller than yourself. Perfectly round. The door and the frame are made of adamantium, and when the door opens, it slides into the wall rather than swinging in or out. On the body of the door itself, visualize some device or design - anything you like, so long as you carefully construct the image.”

Bucky frowned a bit, concentrating on the more complex mental image, but at last he formed it completely in his mind. A moment later, he opened his eyes, and the door stood before him, just as he had imagined it, right down to the elaborate Celtic knotwork he'd visualized in the center of the door. The first door had vanished.

“I was right,” Xavier said.

Bucky turned and looked at him. “How so?”

Xavier pointed. To the left of the door, a very technical-looking device hung on the wall. Bucky started to lean toward it, to examine it, but Xavier stopped him with a hand. “It's a retinal scanner,” he explained. “If you get close to it, it will scan your eye - and probably have the same effect as touching the key from the other door.”

Bucky backed away quickly. “What the hell _is_ it?” he demanded.

“It is a key,” Xavier said, looking sober. “Specifically, it is the key to the block on your memories. If I can determine how to unlock it, or better still, to remove it altogether, then you will regain unfettered access to your memories.”

“That's good, though, right?” Bucky asked. “I mean, I want to remember who I am and who I was.”

“Do you?” Xavier asked, leaning against the wall and studying Bucky carefully. “Are you certain?”

“Sure, I am,” Bucky replied, confused. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Because I don't speak only of your memories from before you fell from that train,” Xavier explained. “I speak of _all_ of your memories. Memories of what was done to you, and what you were forced to do. Memories of being a prisoner, of being tortured and conditioned and programmed and reprogrammed. Memories of being turned into a killing tool, and of performing the tasks that your masters assigned to you. Are you certain that you want those memories?”

Bucky chewed on his lip for a moment, contemplating Xavier, and the door, and the scanner, and the mostly empty room. “It doesn't actually matter. I'm getting them back anyway,” he said softly. “Aren't I?”

Xavier nodded. “Some of them, yes. Enough that you have a rudimentary personality and a basic knowledge of who you are with and that you are safe with them. The programming is breaking down, and the conditioning has cracked. This wall against which I lean becomes permeable. But it is unpredictable. You may never get any more than what you already have. Could you be satisfied with that?”

“No,” Bucky replied immediately. “Half the time, I feel like a fuckin' vegetable.”

“Then again,” Xavier continued, “it may come crashing down one day, flooding you with every memory ever stored in your brain. In addition to being incredibly painful, it would be such an overwhelming flood of sensation that your brain might not be able to cope with the amount of information. You could seize, fall into catatonia, or even die.”

“Die? From memories?”

“From neural overload,” Xavier corrected.

Bucky nodded. “So my choices are stay a vegetable, risk dying, or let you play with the door and turn it into - what, a safety valve?”

Xavier nodded. “It is an apt analogy.”

“I don't know much, but I do know about pressure,” Bucky said. “Let's install the valve.”

Xavier smiled. “It's actually not going to be a problem,” he said. “I just needed to make sure that I had your informed consent before beginning.” He paused. “I want you to also be aware that, while I shall endeavor to be as careful and gentle as possible, the triggers were set through the medium of pain, and it is inevitable that un-setting them will also be painful.”

Bucky gritted his teeth. “I'm used to pain,” he said. “Do what you gotta do, Doc.”

Xavier nodded. “I must inform our companions,” he said. “I will resurface for a moment to do that, but I will leave you here, as it is easier to rejoin you within your consciousness than it is to lift us both out and then drop us both back in again.”

“Sure, Doc,” Bucky replied. “You do your thing. I'll wait here.”

Xavier nodded, and quite suddenly vanished from Bucky's sight, leaving him alone in his mind. He wasn't sure he liked the feeling very much.

***

Xavier opened his eyes and blinked, bringing the real world back into focus. Before him on the sofa, Bucky sat, unmoving, his eyes still closed. Max was curled up beside his feet. Darcy and Steve were in the kitchen with Logan, and the smell of cooking food filled the air. He turned his head a little bit. “Logan. Steven. Darcy.”

The three of them came from the kitchen quickly, nearly falling over each other like clumsy puppies in their haste. “Doc?” Logan asked, hastening around the chair. “Everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, Logan,” Xavier replied. “I merely wanted to give you all an update before I begin work.”

Steve came around to stand behind Bucky, facing Xavier. Darcy followed, her hand gripping his shirt at the small of his back. “What can you tell us, Professor?” Steve asked.

“I've found the source of the memory block,” Xavier replied. “It's attached to a trigger point within his mind - one which, I suspect, will turn out to be rather complex. In order to release his memories in a manner that doesn't run a risk of hurting him - Bucky himself likened it to a pressure valve - I am going to have to do some fairly complicated work in order to remove the trigger. It will almost undoubtedly cause him pain, and that may manifest physically.”

“Manifest how?” Darcy asked.

“Sweating, twitching, unpleasant facial expressions. He may cry out. He will not move, though, and it is absolutely imperative that no one touch either him or me until I am finished. This is very delicate work, and the slightest interruption could cause irreparable damage to his mind.”

Steve nodded. “We won't.”

“How do we know the difference between you working and actual distress, though, Doc?”

Xavier shook his head. “You don't,” he said simply. “He and I will have to handle anything that happens.”

Logan looked skeptical; Steve and Darcy exchanged worried glances. But all three of them nodded their acceptance. “We won't mess with you,” Darcy said. “We're making dinner for when you're done, though; Logan said you'd probably be hungry.”

Xavier smiled. “Thank you; that's very thoughtful of you.”

Darcy smiled back, brilliant against the worry in her eyes. “Is there anything at all we can do to help?” she asked.

Xavier shook his head. “I'm afraid not, dear, but thank you. He and I will manage quite well.”

Darcy nodded. Steve swallowed hard. “Can you tell him we're rooting for him?” he asked.

“I will,” Xavier said. “Thank you.” Then he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and plunged back into Bucky's mind.

***

Bucky was sitting on the ground when Xavier returned, studying his feet. He'd changed clothes, the vintage 1941 slacks and sweater replaced by a pair of sturdy black jeans and an olive green sweater with a white stripe around the chest. On his feet were sturdy black combat boots. Xavier studied him for a moment. “Very modern,” he finally said.

Bucky smirked slightly. “I've been working my way through different stuff,” he said. “Trying to see what kind of clothes I could remember seeing people wear, and learning how to make all this work.” He waved an expressive hand at his surroundings. “You missed the accidental miniskirt; my legs looked _fabulous_.”

Xavier laughed. “Your friend Steven sends his encouragement,” he said as Bucky got to his feet. “He wished me to tell you that he is rooting for you.”

Bucky smiled gently. “Steve would root for me against God himself,” he said, his voice thick with fondness. “He's already fought the Devil for me and won.”

“He is a rarity, your Steven,” Xavier said gently. “His loyalty, once granted, is unwavering, regardless of circumstances.”

“That's maybe the truest thing anybody ever said about Steve,” Bucky agreed. Then, feeling like the time for small talk was over, he squared his shoulders and faced the door. “So, what do we do with this thing?”

“We're going to break the lock,” Xavier replied. “And we're going to break it so very thoroughly that no similar lock can ever be reinstalled.”

Bucky turned hope-filled eyes on the older man. “You can do that?”

“I can,” Xavier replied. “I absolutely swear to you that when we are finished here, no one - not HYDRA, not _anyone_ \- will ever be able to tamper with your mind against your will again.”

Bucky nodded, straightening up and coming to attention. “That's worth any amount of pain,” he murmured. “So let's do this.”

“Very well,” Xavier agreed. He stepped up behind Bucky, reaching up to place his fingers on Bucky's temples. “Lean forward,” he said, “and let the scanner read your eye.”

***

Being forced to watch but unable to help was agonizing. Steve Rogers was not used to being a non-assisting spectator. He was, for his sins, the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan, and right now that plan was to sit with his hands curled into fists and watch his best friend sweat and shake and moan while being completely and utterly unable to do a damn thing to make it better.

It was the worst kind of hell he could imagine.

Logan prowled the downstairs like the predator that was his namesake, and Darcy moved back and forth between the kitchen and the living room, checking on dinner and trying to comfort Steve, who would not be comforted. Finally she lost patience with him, and she smacked him in the chest with his new Moleskine sketchbook. “Draw it!” she ordered.

He blinked at her. “What?”

“You're sitting there grinding your teeth and clenching like you want to break something or strangle someone, and you're making me nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full'a rockin' chairs!” she snapped, her drawl coming out the way it sometimes did when she was tired or upset. “So since you won't come sit in the kitchen and you won't go work it out in the gym and you won't let me rub your shoulders to help you relax, you're either gonna draw it out, or I'm goin' in the kitchen and get my granny's cast iron skillet and knock you upside your stupid, stubborn head. What's it gonna be?”

He blinked at her, processing that statement, and then he looked down at the sketchbook in his hands. “I'll draw,” he said meekly.

“You do that!” Darcy snarled. “I'm gonna make a pan of cornbread.”

Logan gave a rusty chuckle from the corner. “You're already making dinner, Doll,” he said. “What do we need cornbread for?”

She rounded on him, pointing a wooden spoon in his direction. “Because you can't have red beans and rice without cornbread, Logan Howlett, and because I am a stress feeder, and between the two of you, you're just damn lucky I don't have the ingredients on hand for jambalaya. Now either shut up and find something to do, or I'll by God find something for you to do.”

Logan blinked. “Yes, ma'am,” he replied, grabbing a book blindly off the nearby bookshelf and taking a seat in the closest chair.

Steve retrieved his pencils and settled himself, trying to study Bucky and the Professor like they were a sculpture or a very interesting scene completely unrelated to himself. The sound of Darcy rattling around in the kitchen - and it sounded like she had a lot more going on than just one pan of cornbread - was actually soothing in the background. It was like some part of his hindbrain knew that if Darcy was making food happen, nothing too bad could be going on. He took a deep breath and let himself fall into the paper, trying hard to ignore the occasional sounds of pain that came from Bucky. It wasn't easy.

***

The pain was sustained, and intense, but somehow not as bad as the machine, and though Bucky was in agony, he could feel the calm, quiet strength of Xavier supporting him and knew that it would be all right. He'd been afraid, at first

_(no not the machine not again please no)_

but then he'd heard Xavier's voice murmuring in his mind, reminding him that he wasn't alone, wasn't in the machine. That Xavier was there because Steve asked him to help, that Xavier was a friend, that the pain was necessary but that it was a good pain, a cleansing pain,

_(penance)_

a healing pain. With those reminders, Bucky was able to hold it together, to bear down against the pain, to fight his way through it. He wouldn't give in. When they had taken him, the first time, he had been weak, defenseless, and they had easily overwhelmed his mind. He would never be weak and defenseless again - Xavier had promised to make him strong, and Steve had promised to be his shield against the world.

He would be victorious.

He would fight against HYDRA, against Pierce, against Zola, against the Red Room and Department X and anyone who had ever used him as a tool and forced him to do things that made his soul shrivel up in horror

_(please stop i don't want to hurt anyone else please)_

and he would never, ever be used that way again.

He felt Xavier's gentle encouragement through the burning waves of agony in his brain, and he clung to that like a lifeline, forcing his way through it.

He was Bucky.

He was James Buchanan Barnes.

He was the Winter Soldier.

He was

He was

_(i am not your tool_

_i am not your slave)_

He was _free_

and suddenly he was flying

***

Everyone jumped when Bucky fell off the couch, narrowly missing the dog and landing hard on his left shoulder. His hand slipped out of Xavier's and Steve nearly panicked; only Logan's quick reflexes kept him from leaping forward and possibly hurting someone. “Not so fast, Bub,” Logan said, snatching him back when he would have grabbed Bucky and pulled him out of the floor. “Doc said no touching.”

“But they're supposed to be touching!”

“Doc never said that. He said _you_ don't touch. So sit your ass back down and wait.”

Fortunately for everyone's sanity, Xavier himself came out of trance mere moments later. He was perspiring lightly, but when he looked around the room at the others' worried faces, he smiled. “It worked,” he said simply. He glanced down at Bucky, who was lying in the floor, and said, “Steven, help James onto the couch, won't you?”

Steve virtually leapt forward, hauling Bucky up and onto the furniture. Bucky moaned softly as he was jostled upright, his right hand coming up to press against his temple. “Jesus,” he groaned. “Anybody get the number offa that truck?”

Steve's return laugh was a little damp. “You doing okay there, Buck?”

“Well, I ain't dead,” Bucky replied. He rubbed at his face for a minute before blinking, his eyes slowly focusing as he looked around the room. For just a moment, it was as if he'd never seen it before, and then recognition clicked on his face. His eyes went blank as things began to slot into place inside his mind.

“It won't always be like this,” Xavier said softly over the deafening sound of Bucky's sudden silence as Steve took a seat beside Bucky on the couch. “He's re-assimilating quite a lot of data that had been locked away from him; eventually this will either stop happening, or happen so quickly that no one will notice. For the first week or so, though, he'll need to take processing breaks like this fairly often.”

Bucky shook his head hard. “Dammit. Sorry 'bout that, Steve,” he said. Then he did a double-take. “Steve,” he breathed.

Steve stared at him. “Bucky? Do... do you remember?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, his voice catching. “Yeah. Doc fixed me, man. I remember everything.” And he leaned forward, throwing his arms around Steve. “God, I missed you,” he whispered, squeezing Steve hard as Steve squeezed back. “Everything they took away from me, but you being gone... that hurt the worst.”

“I thought you were dead,” Steve managed. “So long, Bucky, I thought you were dead.”

Bucky laughed wetly, sitting back and grinning at his friend - his _brother_ \- unashamed of the tears on his face. “Yeah, well, I thought you were smaller, you punk.”

Steve cuffed Bucky gently on the side of the head. “Jerk,” he sniffled.

“Who's hungry?” Darcy shouted from the kitchen. “The cornbread's ready and I just put a pecan pie in the oven!”

“We're coming, Darce,” Steve said, standing and pulling Bucky up with him and tossing an arm over his shoulder. “But first, I gotta introduce you to my brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I am back from Texas just in time to end this arc! Thanks so much to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this story and all the others. Y'all don't know how much it means to me to know that so many people enjoy my work.
> 
> Special thanks go out to Secondalto and Citymusings, my sisters from other misters, who have put up with my headcanons and run-on sentences and without whom this series would not be nearly what it is.
> 
> Never fear, folks, this is not the end of the series, just this arc. I'll be back soon with more! :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [(podfic) Winter's Ending](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2665094) by [secondalto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secondalto/pseuds/secondalto)




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